Sitting in my sewing room
surrounded by towers of thread,
various stacked plastic bins of quilt fabric,
and cloth bought to use with patterns.
And yarn, and more patterns for the yarn.
Books, more books, books on dvds that I can no longer play and books I bought and hid here.
Machines, needles, pins. Pins and needles.
Delayed promises, slipping out of usefulness, gone dreams, altered bodies,
diminished, done. DONE. Goodbye, good riddance, be gone.
Sits back. Sips tea. Breathes out.
Treasure, gifts, money, things I bought and bought and carried and stored and renewed ambitions; just a thread a day, here and there a seam.
Beautiful colors, piles of promise, walls covered in dancing pieced rythmic patterns:
Sewing bits into beauty,
accomplishment and order.
And reason, and roots – belonging ; a history
threaded to the ancestors I have never met, the ones in pictures who made their own clothes
from flax and flour sacks
from silk and sequins and
I make space to breathe again. None of this stuff means anything to anyone but me. I have broken the thread of dynasty.
I have revered them and loved them hard and now
I have released them.