I manage to keep this bag with me. Years. I may well have been born with it.
Its many-colored haircloth is seamless and drawn tight on itself by a braid. I have repaired it with my own strands; first blonde, then browns, now grays.
It must weigh half an ounce, if that. Here—open it. Yes, open it.
I know! Black as any night with storm. I have known moments in life to be so dark. Is there a scent of rain from within, or does my imagination brew it? No trick there; it is as small on the inside…except—well, no, that would sound dramatic.
Those dark moments I mentioned? I-it sounds wild.
Yes, alright. How to tell you?
When I don’t know what more there is, the times my mind empties and no solutions come, the braid looses itself as the sides of the bag bulge.
I have learned to accept the strangeness of it and let the bag fall away on its own.
Then into life appear the most uncanny blessings. I cannot not ask for what I do not know I need, but there it is. I gather the slack bag and try to embrace what is given me, hope.
Surely you haven’t lost yours? Oh. Come, let me help you weave.
© 2014 Sandra R. Davidson