Meghana Week 10

"The silk kisses her fingertips like gossamer. It's too delicate - much too so - and she's afraid that if she continues her sewing, continues to weave in colors, it'll disintegrate. But when the fabric slips between her calloused fingers, she swears she feels a tugging. As if the fabric is beckoning her to touch it, pulling her fingertips into the perpetual motion of stitching.

She sets it back up upon the table. The silk tickles her palm, kisses her wounds. It is an ointment to the years of struggling and practice, the cuts and bruises which will remain like an artist's brush strokes on the canvas that is her skin. A balm to mollify her anxiety.

She inhales, closes her eyes, and allows her body to move in a steady dance between her and the cloth."