Fingering the squares of fabric
that once were my mother's dress
or her sister's nightgown.
Wondering what
my Grandmother
thought while she
stitched. Perhaps
just random thoughts
like the pattern she
created. Knowing
where all those
clothes had been.
Was story enough.
Those years
I resisted
learning anything
alongside
another woman.
Have left me with
empty hands.
Useless to cut
and patch memories,
that warm the night.
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