1 September 2012
Slowly, I loop the cotton through the eye of my needle, and thread it through. It's silky twine shines a little in the moonlight; a silver cobweb floating between my needle and the reel in my other hand. I pause to look at how lightly it curls around my arm, airless and yet so living. An endless silvery thought unravelling itself from its coil.
"Hold still," I say, pricking the needle on the end of my finger to check its sharpness. A spot of blood seeps out of my finger, like a tiny bud blooming, and I agree with myself that it is sharp enough.
You sit, watching me tentatively leaning against the rough trunk of the dead willow tree which curls around us, shielding us from the night. Through its branches, we can see tiny, far away suns winking, and shooting stars whizz across infinity, a fleeting strand of cotton in the atmospheres dark honeycomb. I see you, nervously blinking at me, your long white hair dancing in the nights breath. Stardust glitters on your nose and cheeks, and speckles your eyelashes like snow. Slowly, you kneel up and crawl towards me on the stooping branches. Placing a kiss on my shoulder, you take the needle from my hand, and roll it between your fingers.
"I love you," you whisper, with truth shining through the inky night, making us smile at the warmth. "You too," I say, leaning forward and kissing your temple.
You pull your legs out from underneath you, and lie back against a gnarled root, closing your eyes as if you are going to sleep. Taking the needle from your fingertips, I pull the thread through a little more, and settle by the side of you.
Slowly but surely, I begin to sew our souls together. I start with our hearts, stitching them close with a tiny, white stitch which is hardly visible. Tracing it with my fingers, I can still feel the join: a thin, silvery crease like a river or a raindrop down a window. You don't flinch, even though it must hurt. You just lie there, looking up through the cracks in your view that the branches make, and staring up at the universe, taking in your own size and insignificance.
Next, I take our memories, and give them each a stitch together. I make a little string of them, and they shine like Chinese lanterns in the dark night air. I grin when i find that they laugh and tinkle like bells in a breeze when I pull on the needle. I place them all in your hands and you blow them into the breeze, where they float like kites as they hang above our heads, attached only by my thread.
Then I take out each of our dreams, and look at them. Turn the over in my hands a few times. They are both hard and smooth like stones, but glisten like oil in the sun. I smile when I see what yours is: I see, on the stone, you and I sat right on the shore of a foamy but calm sea with the sun on our backs and the waves lapping at our sandy toes. I remind myself to take you to the beach soon. Finally, I thread them onto my cotton, and to my surprise, the needle slips through the hard stones like clay.
Lastly, I take our love. A tiny, yet bright spark that spits and spats as I lift it from between us. It zips about in the air, making the ends of my hair stand up with all the electricity that fizzes about the air. I laugh, and catch it in both of my hands like a butterfly, and thread it onto the needle. It sparks, and becomes bigger, brighter, more colourful. It's stunning.
"James, wake up," I whisper, placing a pale hand on your arm. You wake, and sit up slowly, your eyes shining. You look up, and see the hundreds of silvery threads floating above us in the air, like strands of an angels hair, or caramelised sugar. Your face glows with honesty and ecstasy, and you throw your arms around my neck. Taking the needle from my fingers, you push it hard into the ground with your thumb, and push dirt over it. A tiny white shoot breaks through the dirt, and curls over on itself, marking the spot.
You help me to my feet, and comb the dead leaves out of the folds of my dress with your hands. Slowly, you slip your hand into mine, and we both feel how the curves and scoops of mine fit perfectly into yours, like two pieces of a puzzle. The dip in your hand, carved out like a piece of wood washed up on the shore after a storm, fitting around my small, pink hands, shaped like little shells half-buried in the sand.
I look back at the shoot, and know that one day, maybe one of us will dig under the white flower and find the needle. they will cut the tread and unpick each stitch, one by one, setting each of us apart, untangling us like the branches of the willow tree when it was alive. But I hope that the shoot will grow into a huge, silvery flower, and when we are ancient and dead we will be buried below it.
and so we walk, trailing silver white threads
Sewing James • Opuss № I