They are watching, always watching.
Needle in, needle out. Needle in, needle out.
I live inside my head. I remember. Sitting by the fire with my mother. Learning to sew. The warmth, the comfort. All of that. And now this.
Needle in, needle out. Needle in, needle out.
The ability of clothes to transform. I have learned to block out all the noise, the pain. To pretend it’s a movie going on around me.
They are watching, always watching.
Needle in, needle out. Needle in, needle out.
Focus on the seam, on getting the two sides together. On getting it straight. Neat tidy stitches. One row after another. A new needle. More cotton. Strong powerful thread.
Needle in, needle out. Needle in, needle out.
The act of creation. Of making something wearable from a long length of fabric, of putting two things together to make it something new. That is not what is happening here.
They are watching, always watching.
Needle in, needle out. Needle in, needle out.
One stitch after another. My hands worn. Reddened. Fingertips smooth. Wrists, swollen, sore. This material is difficult. It doesn’t want to come together. It pulls apart. Flakes away.
Needle in, needle out. Needle in, needle out.
Clothes can transform, they can take you somewhere else. One stitch after another to make something new. This material can’t be pinned.
And still they are watching me, always watching.
Needle in, needle out. Needle in, needle out.
Their desperate eyes watch my hands fly. I am so fast, so very good at this. At holding their wound together as I flay my needle across and through their wretched skin. My hands. Soaked in blood.
Needle in, needle out. Needle in, needle out.
As if the power of sewing could heal them all and stop this bloody war.
A Tuesday Latte 