I don’t own a sewing kit, no one has ever asked me to sew a button or hem a skirt.
I never mended the holes in my socks when I was older.
My grandmother taught me embroidery and the thick colors that hid each pattern,
It reminded me of her story telling, exuberant tales of religion and magic, her history that bleed a wild imagination into me.
Later in life, I took up quilting and knitting but soon lost interest of the quiet afternoons, the truth was I became bored. The patterns were set, but the colors didn’t weave stories or held the beauty of her face, there was nothing but silence except for the ticking clock and my breathing.
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Many pieces torn into shreds, year by year. Fragile bits cracking gently but never mending. To the core that binded never was. We traveled... -
Forgive me for being on this fast track, This train keeps passing the stations I’m suppose to be getting off. A night here in paradise h...
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The Blue Gypsy once weaved tales of pure delight. And through her voice a magical sojourn took place; Her audience was enticed by every wo...
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