Crumpled, her withered bones show the wear of arthritis. Each stitch the strips of fabric become art. The open window kisses her wrinkled cheeks and the smile that dances in her eyes as she remembers her youth for the owners of the small hands working beside her. With each pause of leading and each stitch she builds her story. The love of life that was built up from the moment their lives touched. The years of playful uncertainty that made up their dance of love. Stories of their first home, children and their adventures. With each story the panels of a past life pulled together the quilt of fabric. Hours of work with much vigor sees the end of the sun as the final stitch is pulled. The tired but hardworking hands slowly gather the blanket close before making the short walk to her room. The door sat wide open as it had for years now. The room was clean, with furniture from her previous life and the bed of their later years of life together. The light of the setting sun pulled its way through the window and kissed the empty bed. Slowly she crossed the floor and floated down to rest her feet. Small smooth movements, on her side she laid facing the window her arm wrapped tightly across the new quilt. A watery eye and a quirk of a smile as her free hand danced across the strips of fabric from old men's shirts. Her eyes fluttered shut and replayed the stories told that day, drifting off to a world that had once been.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Humor in Tragedy
The small squeaks start at dawn.
A flutter of a dance fills the morning as one life ends to sustain another
Both great tragedy and great liberty
The humor and sadness of this delicate nature
A flutter of a dance fills the morning as one life ends to sustain another
Both great tragedy and great liberty
The humor and sadness of this delicate nature
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