In the fading light by the window

I sit with a needle and a spool of thread

and with the memory of mom who taught me to sew with the basic stitch.

I sit by the window witnessing the end of the day

and the frayed fabric in my hand

I hem in the jagged ends into a running road with a smooth edge.

It takes time and patience to thread in the way

and keep the needle ready and in place.

The roughly sewn stitches, add to the life

of the fabric and the dress and with each new stitch I learn

how to save lives from falling apart.

I have a whole big pile of rags

in need of a stitch that heals

I learned the art too late;

that's my only regret.