He relayed with affection, his Mother’s wise words.
“Son, it’s just another stitch, in life’s great tapestry”.

He paused, and grinned, and looked at me as If he understood.

What thread am I? I thought.
Blue, Red, Pink or White?

I think I’d be black.
Sit on the outside, a border, a patch.
Slipstitch on a folded edge.

If life was a blanket, what pattern would you be?
I think you'd be a hole.

My girls, they’d be green and run through my blanket like spaghetti overcooked.

My Mum, she’d be purple and zig zag and cris cross and splash and scatter all over my blanket until I couldn’t make out where her thread started and stopped.

Pop, he’d be red.
A thin line with an unsavoury knot.

My brother; he’d be blue and deep; the strongest thread in my life’s heap.

But you; what will you be?
A backstitch I hope.
I think.
The strongest kind, my favourite link.

© Cup Cake Poetry