1011
I didn’t have to mend my old blue dress
but needle in hand, thread through eye
I’m sitting on the dark brown carpet
with my back against the couch, staring
at the frayed worn edges and the misshapen sleeves
trying to piece them back together again.
Wiser women will say, worry is a thief in disguise
and comfort you gently with their own anxious hands
Painted nails that shimmer like jewels
but a grip that only knows how to tighten.
Passed down from my mother’s mother
I wear mine like an heirloom
trembling along softly worn fabric, trying
to hold onto pieces that don’t belong to me
always afraid they might never let go.
But last night,
I dreamt I stood in that old blue dress
tattered and splitting at the seams
I let you pull the loose thread and we watched
as it all unraveled until I was bare in my skin again.
You cried as the sunlight devoured me whole
and I bathed in every lingering drop of warmth
relishing in the moment it all fell apart.