A Memory

I heard a violin playing a foreign, sort of oriental melody. The up and down and in and out notes drew me first into another world then into another time. My mind wandered off into familiar places and I was 16 again. I was in my childhood home. I was young and still under the wing of my mom. I closed my eyes and heard the clackety-clack of an old, well used and tenderly cared for sewing machine. The rythmic pitter patter is interrupted periodically by a squeaky wheel on an ancient green office chair - the kind used in government offices of times gone by. The arms of the chair are held together with duck tape - a similar, but not identical color of green. There is a rainbow of thread caught in the wheel, which causes the squeak. If I try hard enough, I can almost smell fabric. Fabric, like most things has its own unique smell - it is part organic matter, part manufacture and part dye. I love that smell. I see my mom's beautiful hands and long fingers methodically moving yards of fabric forward under the sewing machine's needle, which is moving at a breakneck speed. I walk down stairs past closely-hung-together masterpieces of artwork which have been painted, drawn or woven by my sister, my mom and me. A collection of the whole of our lifetimes. I smile. She loves us and it's in everything she does and everything we see, touch, feel and smell. We don't know this til we're grown at which time it seems too late to say "thank you" and "thank you" doesn't seem to say enough for those endless nights of endless sewing of endless, endless yards of beautiful fabric. I head back up the stairs past the gallery of fine art. The clackety-clack of an old, well used and tenderly cared for sewing machine continuing steady behind me down below - a clackety-clack with a beautiful violin melody with an oriental theme playing as its soundtrack.

Overnight

Someone watered down the brilliant colors of Autumn.
It happened overnight.
The yellow and crimson trees of yesterday
have put on muted hues of ochre and rust.
Everything is crunchy and sharp.
The sun is distant but bright.

I notice the shadows running long across the road,
like bare thread-work on a loom.
A tangled web of strings stretching to reach everything.
This is the forgotten phase between life and death.
The respite before winter, long winter.
The sun is bright but delivers little warmth.