Needlepoint

She is embroidering me again, bits of me, and not the best. A broken thumb nail, greasy from engine oil. A chipped tooth, a fuzzy nipple, my wrinkly man-bottom. Yet, the way she composes all these scraps of my reality is a revealing, a charting of my presence something she sees as me when not particularly looking. She does not embroider hummingbirds, butterflies or flowers, just these tokens of her acceptance. Funky contingent parts, peripheral yet central vignettes worthy of being presented on a broad white cloth that I am happy to wipe my face upon.