In the wake of her father's death, Spencer Edwards' mother packs up their lives from Oxford, England, and moves them to the middle-of-nowhere Texas. With an agitation for agriculture, and a distaste for anything farming, the small town of Cherry Spr...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little? - Sylvia Plath
Chapter Song - Talk by Hozier
Warm arrays of coloured yarn filled my shopping basket, my quickly depleting supply back at home making it harder for me to not buy every colour here.
With Ronan Keating's When You Say Nothing At All playing in my headphones, I drown out any bad thing in my life or my head as I wander around the craft store. Besides my bedroom, the craft store is easily one of my favourite places.
Sewing supplies, aisles of wound up ribbon, lace, and trim, shelves of pretty, intricate fabrics that I'm dying to buy and sew with. I'm a 'craft head' as Kaylee has always called me. Knitting, crochet, sewing, baking - but that isn't crafty - creativity is my outlet.
I pour everything into what I make, I feel it makes me worthier. And how sad is that, what pitiful thinking I have to turn something I love into an outlet for my sorrows.
Pathetic.
But it was never always like that. My mother taught me everything about sewing, crochet, knitting, and all crafty stuff under the sun since I was a very young child. She said I had a knack for it all, and she was right, it's always come as second nature to me.
And as my mother died young, it's been a way for me to connect with her. The most memories I have of her are from doing anything crafty with her, but it isn't enough to clear the blurry times.
She passed when I was seven, and while I miss her, it's hard to miss something you can't remember much of. Dad keeps her alive with pictures, stories, and her belongings all over the house; but is it terrible of me that it doesn't spark anything?
I wish I remembered her more than I do, but I know that my continuation of all things crafty is what truly keeps her with me. It keeps my dad happy as well, he says I look just like her when I'm all focused in her old craft room.
Crouching down, I rake my eyes over rounds of lace, in search of the perfect trim for the new summer dress I'm making. I love shopping, don't get me wrong, but nothing beats making my own clothes.
Curated exactly how I like, and no one else has it. Call me narcissistic for the second comment, but it's all my wholehearted truth.
Choosing a white lace with highlights of light green running through it, I place it in my over filled basket, before moving into the next aisle. I'm all zoned out as I rake over all the trims squished on the metal shelves, not sensing Sloane Davis' presence.
A soft tap on my shoulder catches me out of my own little world, her bright smile welcoming one on my face. I've know Ford's mother ever since I was a baby as our mothers were best friends since they were four years old.
