The Common Thread
one, two, three, four, five—
the yarn glides across the hook,
joining one stitch to the next.
six, seven, eight, nine, ten—
linking back through generations
of women who never truly met.
eleven…
twelve…
I have always been told I have her face.
Her laughter.
Her kind heart.
thirteen…
fourteen…
Her blanket travelled with us.
It has outlived her by almost fifty years.
fifteen…
no…
where was I?
Somewhere,
another woman—
whose name I never knew—
counted stitches
as her hands turned thread into lace.
I wonder
whether she counted in fives.
twenty…
no…
was it twenty-five?
I never knew either of them.
Not enough to remember
the sound of their voices.
Not enough to ask them
who first placed a hook in their hands.
Yet here I am,
following the same small movements,
wondering whether they, too,
paused when their thoughts wandered,
whether they lost count,
whether they began again.
one…
two…
three…
four…
five…
My hands keep moving.
And for a little while,
I no longer feel like we’re strangers.
