Man (2024)

I lay awake in bed late one night, frozen in the shadow of a figure in my doorway: a six-foot three amigurumi man.

I made him, tediously, in my garage—it took years off me. The wool spun hot through my hands as I wove his tan skin and fringed his Western-style jacket and slacks.

Screaming fingers balmed with sheep grease, I crocheted a pair of mosaic-pattern cowboy boots for my Man. He wears a size 11.5.

He must have cost me a million in wool, as stuffing alone came from a Dorset Horn named Pippi Lambstocking: dense and warm, how I like my Men. Or just Man, for now.

On the threshold tonight, he says nothing, rather like a cowboy would, and lets his plush yarned pistol do the talking.

Hand on holster, he edges toward me sideways like a rattler; not a sound emits from his felt-toed boots.

One foot closer.

Then another.

I gave him a face. I mean, I put a face on him—thank god—but tonight his eyes stay wide in their stuffing-sockets. His nose took me forever. It looks perfect in profile.

He approaches my bedside, hand on holster, but I reach out my hand, and he, with a look of apprehension, takes it.

I guide him to bed and

Hold him like a body pillow—

And he will cry into the morning,

Tears of healing lanolin, into my breast.