The sounds of fabric

The sounds of fabric

I hang somewhere between my parents and my children,
Snapping in the winds, palms burning as I cling to a weathered line.

 

The generation before me unravels just a bit with each gust.
The generation after me whooshes,
Crisp taffeta, precariously tacked.

I never took time for the backstitch.
How was I to stitch the seams of their character?
I hang by a thread.

Yet off they spring, releasing the line.
The rustling fibers of their beauty stroke my soul,
Wash me with innominate emotion as they bravely billow up and away.

I still hang somewhere between.
Clinging. Damp. Sagging sadly before those who formed me.
I question my strength to ease their decline.
Will the determination of my whip and slip stitches be enough?

I loosen my grip, and allow the draughts to slide me up and down the line.
Rippling through memories and hopes.
Flapping flatly past regrets and dreads.

A gust and I snap back.
The upside down arms of cotton distend
upwards to embrace the energy of those rising,
forward to hold the strength of those unraveling.

I swell somewhere between.
Grace.
Family.
Gratitude.
The ethereal threads that bind us.
The lightness of love that lifts us.

9 February 2017

© Copyright Pennie Nichols. All Rights Reserved. 2017

About Pennie Nichols

This little corner is dedicated to some of the things that interest me and to those of you who share those interests about relationships, travel, cooking, gardening, canning, jewelry, and writing. I’ll throw in some recipes and stories for your reading pleasure.

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