I am a necklace of shining glass beads, just strung. Red-blue-black-yellow-clear-green-white shining glinting in the sunlight. Only the ends aren't tied together and without great care the beads will slip from their strand and scatter across the floor in a hail of colored glass. I am a fisherman's sweater with cables and knots and patterned sections. Tree of life, lobster claw, honeycomb, basketweave, ropes. The edges unfinished. A tail of yarn. If this bit of wool snags, catches hold of anything, the stitches will undo themselves. The work unfinished becomes undone. I am a parchment illuminated with golden letters. Gothic script. A tribute to Saint Dymphna, patron to those with mental afflictions. Ink not dry. A careless hand. Words blurred across the page. Too precious to waste, the ink will be scrubbed away with crushed stone so I can be used again. A wooden bench whose joints are not set. A balloon not tethered to the earth. A race with no beginning. With no end. I am a strand of silk being pulled into thread and it seems like I can grow forever. I extend myself over children and faith and love and hope and justice and equity and peace and friendship and family and kindness. Until I become so thin, so thin I cannot be seen. And somewhere in the middle I come apart. Invisibly twisted fine threads tangled here. Tangled everywhere. And there is no collecting all the strands.
Quaker, teacher, parent,