The First Knot I Weave
Sitting at the loom,I close my eyes and remember my prayers.
Like my ancestors before me,
I work the silk,
my boys sitting nearby.
They are my strength.
Knot by knot, I weave.
Minutes turn into hours,
my fingers moving fast,
the colors blending beautifully.
My boys watch,
their curious eyes silently asking why "Anne" is so occupied.
Knot by knot, I weave.
Hours turn into days.
My hands blister,
but the light dances in the silk.
One boy tugs at my skirt,
while the other dreams,
his hopes stitched into the threads before me.
Knot by knot, I weave.
Days stretch into weeks.
My wrists ache,
my arms grow heavy.
Yet, the sound of my boys' laughter fills the room,
a melody that keeps me moving.
Knot by knot, I weave.
Weeks have become months.
I glance up,
searching the shadows,
the quiet chaos of small voices
climbing over each other like silk threads—
fine, fragile, unruly.
Knot by knot, I weave.
Nearly half a year has passed.
My body is weary,
but there is no room for haste.
Every knot is a prayer,
a promise,
a whisper of patience.
When my hands refuse to move,
I rest.
I will weave again tomorrow.
Knot by knot, I weave.
The carpet stretches slowly,
a universe born of calloused fingers.
The silence of mornings,
the long afternoons,
the cold late nights—
they all linger in the threads.
Knot by knot, I weave.
It is nearly complete.
My children, my loom, my silk—
they hold my world together.
I give them patterns they can see now,
a future softened by the labor of my hands.
And with the last knot,
I weave my love.
