What Holds

My mom called about a hem.

I found the spools I'd forgotten I had—

colors stacked in a drawer,

years of small repairs I never made.

I don't remember how to do this.

My mind is blank, my hands are blank,

but my fingers find the needle

and thread it through

like they've been waiting for permission.

The stitch is muscle memory.

The stitch is something I learned

from someone I don't speak to much anymore,

something that lived in my hands

while I was busy forgetting it.

I pull the thread taut.

It frays at the needle.

It breaks.

I start over.

Again.

Again.

Each time it breaks,

I think about quitting,

about calling my mom back and saying

I can't remember,

I've lost it,

it's gone.

But my hands keep going.

My hands remember

what my mind let go.

The fourth time, it holds.

The thread goes through

and doesn't fray,

doesn't break,

holds the fabric together

like it knows what it's doing.

Like something in my body

has been waiting all this time

to do this thing again,

to fix something,

to hold something together

with just a needle

and a color

and the memory

of someone showing me

how.