” Grab the Thread … “
Photo Credit: http://patternila.info/irish-crochet-lace-patterns/ patternila.info
How is it when your mind is so full you can’t think another thought … that is when it hits? Inspiration, I mean. Inspiration of the heart. I am less then 16 hours out from an important meeting which will change the lives of generations of young people. My chance to give back as others have given to me. In the meantime, my people are passing away from me and I can’t find the thread to grasp to keep it all from unraveling. No, at a time like this, when we just lost him and now she has stage 4 cancer in her hip, her lungs, her liver … one does not think of their Self … except I can hear him in the back logs of my mind saying, “This is some bullshit ! That’s what this is !” Heaven is passing out swear points tonight but he was always our angel so they’ll turn to cake anyway.
I try to focus and tell myself that I have no right to be angry or hurt. I held my Mam’s hand and her head while she cried after she got the news. “It’s not fair. I thought she’d have sometime after taking care of him for so long …”, that trailing off to tears again. Her hair is soft nowadays and loosing only the blackness we can recall. I touch her curls and am filled with my Grandma Thomas and My Grandmother, her daughter, my Mother’s Mother they are all about me. Their arms holding me up so I can hold her. It’s not my time to cry. It’s my time to be a daughter. It’s my time to be the rock and braid her hair to whiteness.
The work is always waiting though and she pushes me away. “Go. Do. I am fine.” She is. We are. She has my sisters and my father. I gather my work about me again, the light won’t come on and I am always so far behind. There is only one of me and a million dots to connect to everyday. As I unscrew the coiled contemporary contraption from the socket of my drawing lamp l am glad to see it go. What happened to light bulbs? Round glass fragile eggs which illuminated our nights. Filament~ed dragonflies you could hum to if you closed your eyes and swallowed hard once to clear your gills. I fetch one of those magical orbs from my secret stash of “What used to be” and impregnate us both with anticipation. Yet, the switch yields nothing more than the same emptiness I have been feeling since my mother got that phone call. I go through the usual human stages of denial that the modern age has ask me to abide without every convenience we have been so very spoiled by. It is automatic when your head is full and your heart is searching.
Then I stop and realize it’s not the bulb. It is the lamp itself. I am five years old again in the home my parents made. The only real place that was ever home because they were there. Her brothers. He has brought his new girlfriend home to meet his eldest sister. She has three girls of her own. She talks funny, with a deeper Southern accent than even their Missouri you’all and we all fall in love with her instantly. She has blonde bleached hair and never leaves the bedroom with out her makeup on.
She and I end up somehow in the dining room with a crochet hook and yarn. “Grab the thread,” she tells me and I do. She would teach me to make my first Granny Square that night. She would teach my Grandmother to crochet and many others. I still Grab that thread when things go wrong to find the connection to what is right. To find the rhythm again. To build the fabric back into all the pieces upon the field which have frayed with time. It is an unfortunate practice in this human race not to honor and gather back to ourselves both our purest light and those who have led us to it, while they are still with us. This practice should go the way of all other destruction and violence, to the desolation of false illuminations.