There is a loop, I see it. Small and narrow. But, if I focus my eyes, really look tight on it- I can see the curve. I can see the bend. I can see the circumference of where I am going. It looks so far away. As if I am looking in a telescope backwards.
A distance darkened at its edges, with a speck of something glimmering, beckoning. Then I blink and lose the vision. Now all I see is a needle, small and delicate- yet sharp. I prick my finger as I try to adjust the thread.
I try to toggle it again. It proves difficult to push the flimsy, now shredded thread, through the non-visible loop. I pull back the fiber, put it in my mouth to moisten it, then run my fingers across its wet surface.
It glistens in the light. Telling me a tale of refusal. I smile at it. It doesn't know what I know- I will succeed. This button needs to be fastened or it will be lost. I toggle, it bends to my will- as it slides through the circumference, familiar.
Stitch- through, push. Pull, towards- the filament is thin, wispy. It is easy to tug, yet the fabric is thick. I don't have a thimble, I force the needle through, leaving an indentation in my finger. It mesmerizes me. It distracts me- I look at it until it disappears. Then I repeat the process until the button is adhered.
Toggle and sew complete. Routine to some. For me a rare occasion. I noticed every nuance. Every angle. Every nudge and pluck. It was relaxing. It was purposeful.
It triggered a memory of watching my grandmother sew. My aunt knit. My mother repair my many hems. It seems so antiquated and so beautiful. So primal and visceral.
A tradition.
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