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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Placed in a hole, I’m waiting for a beacon to shine its light upon my hand. To look at you straight into eyes, cast down up cement memories.... -
We are the agents of despair knocking on your door. If you answer you will see a sickle and scythe, We are not malicious nor will we come af...
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Time did not stand still It shaped its road for us to leave the past To rain soaked pavements, fallen leaves, high altitudes underneath the ...
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