Remnant #4: Cassiopeia
Secrets under skin. Secret miracles hung around my neck. Secret sentences lodged in the base of my throat, unspoken. Lately, I have been sitting with the secrets and the silences. It has become my practice. Life keeps erupting all around me. Solar flares blaze and encircle my brain. A halo. And I don't have my words the way I used to, though I've inked them into my body. What is a writer when she isn't writing? The identity slips and so does the mask. Joan Didion said, "I don't know what I think until I write it down." Neither do I, but my words hold their reverent hush.
And so I pick up the needle and the thread again--back to the stitchcraft my mother showed me when I was a little girl. Needles singing through paper like my words can't. Needles telling women's stories--what they reveal and what they do not. My witches and saints, haunting at night.
I think what I mean to tell you is that one form is as good as another. When one part of life doesn't work, let it sit there--stubborn and beautiful and unyielding--and pick up what does. What I mean to tell you is that I will trade my words for your strands of patterned lace. I will kiss you back, if you kiss me first. Just don't ask me to tell you a story today. I don't know you. I love you already. It is cold here, where I live. My heart, dissected in dim light, would glow with a million secret constellations.