part i. a patchwork sister.
fingernails white, polished and perfectly even, to match the marble tile, chosen out of a thousand. 'it sets the mood,' she said, with a memory shuffling it's feet in her excited eye. remembering when she went to the seashore and gathered a pail full of the prettiest, pale shells to give her dying brother. she'll start to cry now, or else shake her head and leave it far behind. at times, when she's up late, the emptiness is something she can't bear. waiting for the door to open to hear his steps, coming up the stairs. a relief better than a thousand idle, fleeting, afternoon wishes. cold water in the hand pressed to her forehead, among the evening's dirty dishes. a patchwork girl with her hair all in curls, and her ivory neck dressed in hand-picked pearls, forgetting the nature of the Father's love and looking to the world.
there's no peaches in hair. but the scent lingers there.
there's no flower in her hand, just petals scattered around her feet from those afternoon wishes.
there's no book in her lap, because her mind is the grandest of libraries. where all her ideas are just a page she once read, and she forgets the wisdom isn't in the words themselves, but in the head and hand of the writer.
when her brother died she found another man with which to dance. heart hide your secret plans! like what keeps you alive! only the Creator knows for certain. all the mornings he leaves without waking her, or comes home to a cold dinner. there's an hour she spends in the comfort of her friends. 'teach me how to use the needle and thread, i'll spend my afternoons as a seamstress, to patch all the places i'm wearing thin.' she'll start to cry now, or else shake her head and keep pulling the thread; weaving a fledgling stitch on the tearing seam that invites every sort of sorrow in.
there's no peaches in hair. but the scent lingers there.
there's no flower in her hand, just petals scattered around her feet from those afternoon wishes.
there's no book in her lap, because her mind is the grandest of libraries. where all her ideas are just a page she once read, and she forgets the wisdom isn't in the words themselves, but in the head and hand of the writer.
when her brother died she found another man with which to dance. heart hide your secret plans! like what keeps you alive! only the Creator knows for certain. all the mornings he leaves without waking her, or comes home to a cold dinner. there's an hour she spends in the comfort of her friends. 'teach me how to use the needle and thread, i'll spend my afternoons as a seamstress, to patch all the places i'm wearing thin.' she'll start to cry now, or else shake her head and keep pulling the thread; weaving a fledgling stitch on the tearing seam that invites every sort of sorrow in.