by Emma Freeman

As I sat alone in silence

I picked up the old weathered cloth

and held it in my hands

drawn to it for reasons I couldn’t name

like it was singing or whispering to me

As I leaned in and listened

I began to wonder,

What stories does this cloth hold?

Who created it with their hands and their heart

out of humble necessity to protect themselves?

What has it silently witnessed all these years it has been alive?

Who has it touched?

Suddenly my fingertips began to flicker

subtly deciphering some kind of hidden code

woven into the fibers

then a keyhole appeared

as if I was looking into another place and time…

It slowly began to expand and suddenly there I was

standing inside a softly lit home in Japan

somewhere in the past

The space was filled with silence

until the sound of water trickling and birds chirping emerged

like the volume of a movie slowly being turned up

I noticed a woman was there

She sat alone quietly stitching

mending something I couldn’t quite see

seemingly deep in thought

connected to something she carried close to her heart

and never spoke about

Her hands moved slowly in memorized rhythms

back and forth

as she traveled elsewhere inside…

Then the keyhole began to close

and I was back in my chair

looking down at the cloth in my hands

As I smiled to myself,

I picked up a needle and thread

and slowly began to stitch…