It’s hard to unpick the fabric of lives that have been woven together for over a quarter of a century.
Initially there is a tear, maybe a small one in a corner that doesn’t show. Perhaps it gets darned, perhaps not. Perhaps someone sticks a finger into the hole and makes it bigger. Perhaps it is just simply ignored or covered up in the hope that it will go away. But ultimately the fabric is weakened, and unless a timely repair is made it will not last.
I was, and am, a skilled seamstress. Not so good at knitting. But when it came to weaving a life I could pull those threads tight. Warp and weft under my hand created a fabric that glowed with life, four new lives in-fact. Brought into this world from my body, fed from my breasts and loved as hard as I could. Which was hard.
That fabric, covered us all, it was enough, I thought, to wish it felt as good as it looked from the outside. It was admired and feted as an example of excellent fabric, well woven and strong. I believed it, others said so, how could it be otherwise?
I had spent so long, put so much of myself into its weaving I could not imagine that one day I would deliberately set about unpicking it. But when a hole gets so big you can no longer ignore its unraveling something has to be done by someone for everyone’s sake.
So I did it. Took my scissors and cut. Into the centre and down the middle and separated the two halves through the middle of the hole. In the stunned silence around me I could hear the cries from all of us.
So hard, to love so hard that I would do this. To wish and hope that it could and should be better. To fear that it never would and that we would all be colder and feel less loved and still to do it. I still sometimes cannot believe I did it. I dream of my house, my family and my life and wake in a strange bed to a strange and lovely view. It has forever changed, I do not regret it but I at times I simply cannot comprehend it.
I fear I will never recover.
eye April 2016