Grandma squints at the needle as she pokes
with the thread, always missing
by a millimeter strand.
Her fingers, no longer nimble, motion me
to be patient.
She licks it once more as a way to seam together
the fibers which unwind and
separate, elegant and graceful,
turning the years back as each
slowly waltz away from the others.
Lacking the power of the Moirai,
wistful eyes meet my own,
dilating pupils, slow blinks, and surges
of uncontrollable emotion
from glee to pain to solemnity to
blankness -
the years unjustified in twirling away from her.
But she doesn’t realize the strings have already settled,
all before her have vanished,
and she returns to squinting and licking and reminiscing…