A Life of Cloth

A life of cloth.

~

Alone in his white room,

With his white cloth like a flawless banner of snow,

Hung upon the wall where no wind bids it wave,

His life begins to weave

Itself into the cloth, staining its threads,

Colors of joy,

And of sorrow. Images,

Appear like flowing water,

Some quickly like splattered paint

That explodes upon the canvas.

Some more slowly,

As a tortoise rises to the surface of a pond

Not to disturb its surface.

As he watches his cloth take ink and thread,

By the invisible fingers of the Norns,

Threads loosen, and separate.

Torn now is his cloth.

With needle and thread he mends the rip,

The rend in the cloth. But lo,

He works alone, and more and more

The rips appear,

Until his cloth is full of holes,

Tears, that mar the images

Of his life. He tried

To mend it as it broke,

But the needle pierced the flesh of his hands

And fingers ‘till they bled.

His needle bloodied and thread near done,

He sat and wept a while.

~

Suddenly she appeared,

with needle and thread of silver and white

to stand by him and mend his cloth.

He looked up to gaze upon her, and she smiled back at him.

“Who are you?” he asked, as she bade him rise

with deep, dark eyes.

“I am your friend, and it pains me

to see that your cloth is stained

and torn.

So I shall help you mend it.”

And together they stitched the cloth back together,

The tears were being mended,

And though they grimaced back

Upon the pain of the needle that pierced their flesh,

Still the cloth was being mended.

~

“Thank you.” He said,

and sincerely so,

because this girl was willing

to help him mend his life’s cloth.

It was then that he realized that he loved her.

“I must repay you!” He said, taking her hand.

“No,” she said. “Do not look upon my cloth!

So hideous is it,

I would wish its sight

On no one’s eyes!”

And she turned and left him their,

As she went to mend her own cloth.

~

Years passed as together they sewed his cloth,

Pricking their fingers red,

To keep up with the tears.

But never did he see her cloth,

Untill one day he asked her.

“Why do you repair my cloth for me

and ask nothing in return?”

“Because, you are my friend.” She said.

“And I love you.”

At this the boy smiled. “Ah,

But you forget! I am your friend,

And I love you! So show me this cloth of yours!

I will mend it for you!”

It was then that he saw her hands,

Bleeding from so many times

Having been pierced by her own needle.

She hid them away, and said

“No, I would wish its burden

on no one but myself.”

And she wept there,

Silently, so that perhaps

He would not hear.

But hear he did.

He walked over to where her cloth was hung,

On the other end of this white room,

And his voice and very breath

Caught in his throat.

For only ribbons remained of her cloth,

Which was black with grief

And blue with sorrow.

“No!” she cried. “Go away from it!

It is not your burden to bear!”

And the boy looked back with a grin.

He grasped the cloth in both hands

And wrenched it from the wall.

He strode with it in his hand and hung it next to his

And sewed it’s end to his own

So that the two banners now

Were one.

“There.” He said triumphantly.

“Now you’ve no choice!

Our cloths are one, inseparable.

Your tears are mine as well, my burden to bear.

So now we sew the cloth as a whole,

So that both of us may have

A banner free of holes.”

~

She wept then, but looked up at him.

“Fine.” She submitted. And she smiled,

and a bright spot in both of the banners grew.

“Let us mend our banner.” She said.

~

And together they sewed,

Pricking their fingers, but still

They mended their cloth,

Together.