Tenuous thread moving through the eye of the needle meant for me. For the hole in my blue jeans, a small spot not as strong, more compressed, feeling the pressure so much more than the rest of her sisters, those fibers and threads woven tightly together til the weight was too great and a kneel gave way to a widening chasm torn asunder.
‘I can help you mend it’, come the gentle words from my mother. On my own I don’t quite know just how I’d sew it shut. Jeans must come off, wrenched inside-out. Deft strokes follow, back and forth: armed with courage, built up by love, kissed with kindness. Slowly the hole becomes smaller, before it disappears. But still it must be treated gently, more tenderly.
Sometimes the mind is like blue jeans.