All day I spin my single wheel of waiting for peace, or quiet. All day I press the fiber to itself, cowl it around the spindle draped in its own soft, animal scent. For years I have sat here, just like this, spinning soft cloth out of the detritus of your lives and bodies.
You have all left here so much of yourselves: unthinking, putting down the loads of your hearts and mouths. You leave me your discarded winter clothes, assuming it will stay warm; you drop your skin cells, your aged-off hairs, your eyelashes, assuming you will not need a layered armor.
I could have told you what would be required. I could have shown you battlescars, hardwon, and the divots left in my bones and skin. I could have told you the great gross strength that would be needed but your smiles were so bright, when you left me, unencumbered and headed out into the summer breeze.
So I keep my peace. I spin and lift, watching others’ bodies rise.