The Old Woman At The Sewing Machine
A poem
The sewing machine goes tuk-tuk-tuk, louder than usual.
An old woman sits at it, her grey curls billowing in the mild breeze of the table-fan.
She is sewing together the seams of her soul and heart - the patchworks were beginning to open up and spew blood.
* I take for granted the spool of thread, await it to hold me together as I senesce along with my fibrosed scars that have rendered me rough, yet tender and tearable upon pushing too much.
Every word, an embodiment of the smarting burn the skin feels when judged, I take upon myself, the need to hum the rickety rattle of a sewing machine in the distance between now
and then.
*
In my dreams, the old woman pedaling away at the loud instrument has my face, with wrinkles sporting specks of stardust and silver-grey hair strands that line the clouds.
© Sana Rose 2020 Written on April 10th, 2016
If you liked this poem, you might also like:
Sana Rose is an award-nominated novelist, poet, physician, counseling professional and freelance writer based in Kerala, India. Connect with her at Instagram and Twitter.
