THIMBLE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It fits, barely~
this small metal crown
pressed onto my finger,
a relic of Mother’s hands.
She stitched whole worlds
from scraps and thread,
turned hunger into hems,
poverty into patterns.
The thimble remembers
the push and pull,
the slow accumulation
of seams, of days~
how she mended
what was torn
without complaint,
how she clothed us
in her quiet revolutions.
Now when I wear it,
I feel the ghost
of her determination,
the weight of all
those invisible stitches
holding me together.
you may read the related memoir vignette at: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/thimbles_and_thread_13647
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