I Did Not Choose Solitude. Who Would?

Our Tribe Unraveled Like A Coarse Rope, Frayed At Either End As The Old And New Among Us Were Taken.

I Want To Remember What Bullshit Looks Like When Weapons Of Mass Destruction Are Diagrammed Out And Whacko "intelligence" Is Delivered In An Ominous Way To Strike Fear Into People And Especially To Pull On The Idealism And Zeal Of The Young.

I Tried Out The Unfamiliar Syllables. They Fit. They Cracked In My Ears Like A Fist Through Ice.

To Sew Is To Pray. Men Don't Understand This. They See The Whole But They Don't See The Stitches. They Don't See The Speech Of The Creator In The Work Of The Needle. We Mend. We Women Turn Things Inside Out And Set Things Right. We Salvage What We Can Of Human Garments And Piece The Rest Into Blankets. Sometimes Our Stitches Stutter And Slow. Only A Woman's Eyes Can Tell. Other Times, The Tension In The Stitches Might Be Too Tight Because Of Tears, But Only We Know What Emotion Went Into The Making. Only Women Can Hear The Prayer.

I Got Well By Talking. Death Could Not Get A Word In Edgewise, Grew Discouraged, And Traveled On.