When we are born we are handed a needle, some thread, no instructions, and we begin to weave these tapestries.
At first they are like handkerchiefs we can carry around in our pockets, but slowly, every day, they grow until they are so big that we cannot see them all at once; we are never sure whether any stitch we make is the right one, but we keep weaving.
My tapestry is so pretty. It is silver and rainbow and dark, bright and sad with halos of hope and doors to dreams, lassos of loss and ribbons of regret, looping around the scalloped edge. There are thousands of little stars, surprises, Sunday brunches, post-it notes of love, sewn into the seams, and more: I carry my kindred spirits in little pockets, keeping pieces of my smile next to their souls.
I have knitted clouds onto the underside, petticoats of sadness, swollen and salted with fragments of a broken heart. Here and there someone has pinched some praise, lifted a bit of laughter, stolen some innocence. There are bruises left by past lovers,
the ache of missing friends, words thrown, cutting like knives.
Sometimes, someone comes along and insists on ripping off a rose or some pride to make room for them, and then when they go, there is a hole that needs to be replaced. And the thread, it becomes thicker, stronger, and I patch it all up with music and hugs and tequila.
My tapestry is getting longer as I get older. Together, we are more fragile, more powerful, more complicated, heavy with memories. Still, all the while, the tapestry billows round my every curve, a marvellous smorgasboard of experiences. Even my scars glow. They are the ones that make us thick with strength. So thick that one day, pain will have to rely on osmosis to get through.