My cousin wore a dress on Christmas Day that she made. Proud of the simple stitching and bright, colorful fabric of the two-layered creation, she told everyone how she crafted the little thing by hand and sewing machine. If only dichotomy were as easy and pleasing as sewing two pieces of fabric together with a little touch of style.
I too sit in stitches of the handmade kind, tied perfectly into my purgatory like some little sister you can’t shake. I don’t really know what that’s like- I am an only child, but I imagine it’s pretty much the same. Pieces strewn about, waiting to be put together, begging to be used in some twisted quilt of old noise built anew. Me, living out the remains of the fantasy of a life I left behind, trying to find the one in front of me. I can't ever seem to get the last stitch. I am always torn, like a rip in your favorite dress. The kind that makes you hiss when it catches, sigh at the damage surveyed, then absently thumb it all night.
I've got a feeling the fabric I left behind has a big hole in my quilt pattern. If I stumble upon it again here in my present, I'll probably rip the shit out of my dress. Or maybe he'll do it for me.
I might not mind thumbing that one for a while.