The Fabric Girl
There was never so lonely a child as she. The fabric girl, I called her because her eyes must have been stitched together to not see what he did to her, to them.
That was a lifetime ago. I was young then and understood less than I should’ve. In adulthood, I’ve known her by the same name, but not for the reasons of youth. Age teaches one wisdom where once there was haste.
The truth was, she held them together in her tight-lipped way like the thread on your trousers or chord on your curtains. She took the beatings and bad words and sewed them into her complicated mosaic called life. She was a seamstress that girl, the best there’s ever been. She had to be, for a loose thread would’ve doomed them all.
The strongest person I’ve ever known, the stubbornest of the stubborn, that little girl with straw hair and skin like a ghost has drifted through my every thought. I’ve regretted not having told her, hers was a name born not from mockery, but admiration. The fabric girl’s still stitched into my soul.