Blood on my hands

Blood on my hands

My fingers are bleeding, but the cloth is invisible, so it does not matter. I could be a blind woman, if I was more co-ordinated, but I expect that that is to come; my eyes can only strain so much to catch a glimpse of something beyond their reach. I am no lace-maker; it is never neat, but it is serviceable, or so I’m told.


The stitches must be small to hold strong; a row of three dozen is hardier than a row of one. I can only imagine the wear and tear; the thread is fine but well-spun, cotton from the cotton plants of a far-off land, grown at the edge of dawn, picked before the colour has had a chance to seep into it, and spun by the hands of the morning star with silver instruments that faintly glow.


It is heady work; being the mistress of so many small fortunes. If I drop a stitch, and I often do when I am pricked, a tiny sigh is heard at my window, and a small puff of breath mists the dimpled glass and then evaporates into the dusk. Night is never far away.


My candles burn low as I come to the end of my current thread. I lay the material carefully across my knees, gripping the tiny implement, reeling off another length, snip-snip with my iron scissors. Impossible to thread; this time I take six attempts. The knotting is easier; twisted round my fingers, the thread pulls tight and indents my flesh, revealing its strength, if not itself.


If I do not have a care, I lose my place, and my ruined fingertips take on a search that calls for more sensitivity than I possess. The nerves are damaged from the pinpricks, my tips numb from overuse. I am waiting on Arthritis to rescue me from this chore; when I can no longer sew, I will be free.


I find the nuance where I have tied off the thread and pierce the fabric once more, starting a new line. I wonder what I’ve done, cutting off the other in its prime. I try to keep the lengths even, to an extent; to go by eye would be more accurate than arm length, which must be my measure.


The blood seeps from the tiny marks, and the blood seeps from the tiny, invisible holes. It mingles, redness on redness, on the pinkness of my forefingers. If I drop too many stitches, the blood will worsen and, upon occasion, a drip might run slowly, languidly, down the shaft of my finger, welling in the web between finger and thumb. If this happens, I wipe it on the material; who is there to see it, if I can’t?


They must.


I am just a seamstress; a simple girl. I sew my stitches good and true. They may not be neat, but they will hold. I dip my needle again; a stitch in time that might be you.