Repair

Sometimes we come loose
from the fabric of our life,
our fingers too sore,
our eyes too tired 
to find the way back in.

Before our mother was born
we lay silent inside her,
both of us held in 
grandmother’s womb,
and great great grandmother
so long ago, carried our
grandmother too.

Everything knit 
was once loose yarn, 
was stretched 
carded and spun 
and before all of that,
before we were thread
we each belonged to the all.

Grandmother knows,
so part of us knows, 
how to find a dropped stitch.
Loose is not lost,
dropped is not fallen,
hanging 
means still connected.

We’re all looking
for our way back in,
all asking, in our own ways,
how we came to be undone,
all waiting for grandmother’s hands,
now our hands, 
to do
what they’ve always done.

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Image: From the painting “Grandma” by Lewis A Ramsay