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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Every summer he would send her letters. Evelyn was thrilled when they arrived. The anticipation of receiving them after the long winter woul...
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He told me I would always remind him of autumn. The way the leaves turned, the line between decaying leaves and cool breezes, the way the fo... -
At night, the stairs of this old house creaks Whispering to me, sweet spirit sleeping soundly during the night. The shadow movements, the ...
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