The needle trembled in her grasp
Its eye wavering in her frail hand
She squinted, her breathing steadied
And whispered, ‘a little more’
But the thread buckled, unyielding to her plea
She realised she had been stooped over
And the familiar ache raced across her back as she sat up
Small padded footsteps from outside
Greeted her even before she saw her daughter’s face
Her Love sat beside her, eyeing the torn dress.
Why don’t we just buy another Mama?
Because we mend what we treasure, my Love.
This tattered hole is a reminder of our faults
And memories etched should never be forgotten
But preserved as our lives’ silver linings
Her Love grew and knelt beside her, eyeing her torn dress.
Why do you still stay Mama?
Because our heart strings were bound together by Him
Woven to perfection, my Love
But we decided to create our own knots
Some stitched our imperfections together
While others were complicated by our unwillingness
To let go of our frayed ends
Because tugging these strings
Will only tighten the noose in the middle
And our hearts are not hard enough to see you suffocate
Her Love stood in the doorway, dressing her torn eye
Why does it hurt Mama?
Because pearls are born from the oyster’s discomfort, my Love
And so will embroidery from a needle’s prick
The beauty of your fabric rests on your fervour
To soldier on with your own hands.
She sat where her mother used to be
The needle now remained unmoving in her grasp
Its eye unwavering in her hand
She squinted, steadying her breathing
And whispered, ‘I can do this’
The thread yielded to her mother’s legacy
Her heart finally seamed.