October 26th

star constellations

connected in the dark sky

depths of soft velvet

 

a bag of tangles

fine threads and buttons orphaned

sad dabs of a life

 

retrieved and rescued

snipped and stacked in love’s labour

rehomed, remembered

 

I’m very proud of this three tiered haiku. It’s probably my favourite of the whole year. We inherited mum’s threads and buttons when sorting out her old house. I watched D carefully extricate the tangles from each spool, snip and stack them carefully in a new box. She’ll use them and I’m proud she’ll use them in her art and work. It feels right, some continuity, of unbroken use, she also inherited the same from her late grandmother.

We went through the buttons mum had, the little keepsakes she kept with the buttons, my dad’s ancient hand made penknife, the village they were from was famous for them, and other little curios whose use or meaning are now lost with my mum and dad’s passing. We also have her wool and knitting needles. Her nimble fingers busy to the day she died. And three baby jumpers she’d knitted, complete bar the addition of buttons. People were always having babies of course and she wanted to have a stockpile to hand out.

And then a broad bed sheet, of cotton, made by my mum’s family, but with inlaid silk supplied from my fathers side of the family, specifically my grandfather. My grandfather subsisted through woodcutting, harvesting silk worms, diving for sponges, hunting and fishing, with the occasional lute and song performance at weddings/gatherings. An old way of life. I have vague memories of him, having only met him on two or three occasions, he lived in a different country after all, his cloudy blue eyes under bushy white brows, big sun browned forearms and upright back. The outdoor life was good to him. And his wife, my redheaded freckled granny, my dad said he was conceived under a lemon tree when the couple ran off together without seeking permission of engagement from their respective parents (or so he claimed!)

We are all the output of generations of our history, their fears, desires, loves and morality. No one is perfect. But I’m proud. My mum and dad did their best, most mum and dads do. And when they are gone, the things that we raged about, disagreed with them about, seem less important, melt away. We are left with the emptiness of loss, the warmth of fond memories and a sense of guilt, time, the great plague of modern life. Making time for those you love. It isn’t fair, but we can’t make it perfect, even with foresight. We can only try to do our best. Flawed as we might be, flawed as they might be, those special people will always love us.