you wove quilts with your words, quilts i buried myself under and let sleep overcome me.
you took the needle and thread as if it were a precious gem, boxed up and stamped with a "HANDLE WITH CARE" label.
carefully, intricately, you took it a stitch at a time.
yes, you messed up sometimes.
but messing up meant redoing what already was and seeing new angles, new patterns to stitch into your beautiful quilt.
and the colors of the fabrics, oh, the colors.
you took brilliant fuchsias, light lavenders and silky blues, and it was as if you had pulled samples from the cosmos themselves.
each part was so unique, so special, that i marveled at the fact that one individual was capable of such diversity.
you explained to me, in more fabrics and colors, that you always had a different aspect, a different experience.
you laughed, twinkling stars appearing on your quilt. with a sad look in your pin-cushion eyes, you told me that growing old meant growing wise.
and then, you turned back to your quilt, letting everything you had to offer flow onto the papery fabric, staining the creamy whites with tints made from stars.
and i watched, captivated by your intricacy.
and i watched, watched your lissome fingers guide the thread in yet another extravagant pattern.
-olive ☆〜（ゝ。∂）
YOU ARE READING
cadence
Short Story[small stories] ca•dence /kādns/ noun a sequence of notes or chords compromising the close of a musical phrase. the final cadences of the song swept a bittersweet taint through its waters.
