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Welcome to the world, little one. She buries the message in every stitch. The hat is a gift, not out of kindness for the new parents but for the child, welcome and apology at the same time: Welcome to the world, sorry we screwed it up so badly. It’s a new mother who tells you about her; you complained briefly about the unseasonable cold while you fixed her camera and you thought it was small talk until she gave you the solution. You’re still not sure why you’re following her directions, but you have a fleece someone traded a few months ago, and your hands have been pretty cold.
She prefers barter to coin, as most people do out here: a jar of honey, an hour’s maintenance on her battered Airstream trailer, a new story that comes to life under her ever-moving fingers. Everywhere you look is something she’s created, or something coming into being. The walls are covered with tapestries, all stories she’s been told. A new one is being born on the small loom in the corner; it’s waiting for the right color, she says, nodding at the spinning wheel. Her hook only stops moving when she’s actively doing something else; right now, she’s pulling a pair of gloves out of a drawer. “These are yours,” she says, and hands them to you. They are fingerless, burgundy wool, and they fit your hands as if they were made for them. The palms are butter-soft leather and you know without being told that it’s genuine. There’s a hat to match, and an argyle scarf worked in burgundy and gold that reminds you of home.
“Thank you,” you say, and she smiles at you.
“Come back any time,” she tells you, and, letting the door click shut behind you, you realize that she means it.
She prefers barter to coin, as most people do out here: a jar of honey, an hour’s maintenance on her battered Airstream trailer, a new story that comes to life under her ever-moving fingers. Everywhere you look is something she’s created, or something coming into being. The walls are covered with tapestries, all stories she’s been told. A new one is being born on the small loom in the corner; it’s waiting for the right color, she says, nodding at the spinning wheel. Her hook only stops moving when she’s actively doing something else; right now, she’s pulling a pair of gloves out of a drawer. “These are yours,” she says, and hands them to you. They are fingerless, burgundy wool, and they fit your hands as if they were made for them. The palms are butter-soft leather and you know without being told that it’s genuine. There’s a hat to match, and an argyle scarf worked in burgundy and gold that reminds you of home.
“Thank you,” you say, and she smiles at you.
“Come back any time,” she tells you, and, letting the door click shut behind you, you realize that she means it.
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Date: 2010-11-30 09:15 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2010-12-01 05:34 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2010-11-30 09:29 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2010-12-01 05:36 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2010-12-01 09:38 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2010-11-30 10:27 pm (UTC)From:I'd like to see more, actually.
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Date: 2010-12-01 05:37 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2010-12-04 06:14 am (UTC)From: