She prepared the cloth in the evening. Then she got up early.
She was making a Hapsburg lace maze. It had 16 flower gardens.
She will sit instead of walk. She will sew instead of talk.
The hours will pass with her silence. Some morning rain will make her smile.
It will be white thread with some silver. Beads instead of French knots.
Her hair is white with age. Too many quiet years.
She feels someone touching her hair. A light caress against her ear.
The sound of birds pass her by. Oh she was just growing deaf.
She traced the pattern to the cloth. She made the pattern herself.
Her hands shivered. She feels someone squeeze them.
She stops and sits back to rest. She tries to take a deep breath.
It must be her blood. And her aged heart.
It was a large garden maze. The largest flower garden in the center.
She puts her glasses on the table. She has finished tracing.
She looks far away to soothe her eyes. A man takes a seat beside her.
She asks if he wants something to drink. He kisses her on the cheek.
She begins with the hedges. They are all double cross-stitches.
The holes in the cloth help her count. The lacey stitches come later.
Then she starts to cry. She talks to herself quite a bit.
And sometimes cries. Most of the time she’s making laces.
Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Friday, January 17, 2014