It’s like she finds a string at the edge of my shirt hem and says —
“Let me help you, Mama” — but the loosened string unfurls the hem.
“Turn this way” — she offers gently with her hand on my shoulder.
I spin and twirl like she used to dance with me —
and these purple threads in her hand unstitch the entire hem as she pulls.
“Sorry Mama” — she says, and hands me the bundle of thread.
“It’s better this way” —
I calmly tell her, dropping the thread into the drawer where
I keep coupons and other unnecessary items.
“You needed to help me with this.”
She thinks I am talking about the purple string.
I’ll find that thread again in January when the snow starts to
swirl and I might remember how my
unraveling then is likely what I needed.
.
A rough edged hem —
now soft and open.
My heart sealed against change —
now dreaming along with her.
It’s a letting go, a dance, a grief for
loving my child so fiercely,
but this painful twirling must
conclude —
to let her go
into her own adventures.
.
She comes back
and leaves —
and then returns.
It’s all just a dance — and I’m here for it.
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