Silken Strands of Time

This morning I woke up with the “right” attitude. I was going to have a good Monday. A good week. I was ready to make the best of everything and spread love like a baby cherub to all my co-workers.

As I was getting ready to leave I put on my black Barbour coat. I reached for my favorite red scarf.

Scarves are important. Or at least they are to me. Emblematic of people who spoiled me, I have scarves from places around the world.

My sister has given me one from Denmark; it shimmers with a light purple and shines gold depending on how the light hits. One from Thailand. Vietnam.

Vietnam is the red scarf. It’s from someone I love dearly. Romantically. Who’s far away and I rarely get to see. The red scarf is from a time before life got in the way.

I looped it around my neck and tucked it in my jacket best I could. I reached for the zipper and jerked it quickly. But as I readjusted my zip, I realized the luscious ruby red material was caught within the contraption.

When I pulled down to reverse what I had done, the zipper seemed to gnaw further at the silken splendor.

I panicked. With my roommate still in bed I mumbled “Heellp. Help.” I started sweating.

 “Dammit, help me! F-ing help me.”

I was angry. My scarf was going to be stuck forever. I would never get to work. And I was getting hot underneath it all.

“Gerh uh ugh…halp!”

Roommate came to rescue in her PJs. After a minute or so she was finally able to remove the scarf. But when she did, the red silk looked as if it had been stabbed with a pencil and yanked down for good measure. I was fuming.

Embarrassed, I apologized to my roommate. I felt like a child. I walked back to my room and threw the scarf on the bed.

As I walked off my anger and into the metro, I began to cry.

Nothing in this world lasts forever, I thought. Tears welled in my eyes and dropped like gumballs onto the pavement. I thought of everything my mom had given me. I thought of my romance from which the red Vietnamese scarf was wrought.

And now it had a hole in it. Just like the winter tights in my drawer my mom had given me three Christmases ago. I still have them.

The train was sucking me towards the future as I cried, not even about the scarf, but about memories past. And how they, just like my gifted garments, become mangled as they are revisited.

How can I protect them from the future?

How can a silk scarf’s weave remain as soft and intricate as a kiss shared almost a year ago, dancing in the living room?

I know there’s no protecting either from weather.

The train squeals. Stops. Ding-Dong-Ding. Doors open. And I’m sucked out onto the Farragut West platform by an invisible force not entirely my own.

I keep on. But only because I know that love transcends all things, including time.


2 thoughts on “Silken Strands of Time

  1. Vikki Swisher says:

    You make all the mundane, simple things and the repetitive events of daily life powerful in their own right. I will never see any of my scarves the same way…they all tell a story of time with feelings gone by…not near as beautiful as the moment they represented but still will outlive me or my physical presence Hope to see you the week after Christmas Im tired so not sure anything i said will make sense… You teared me up about the stockings in your drawer…wish I had known her…the woman who had the fortune to have you as a daughter..the her before the sadness and frustration. She is so proud of you I have no doubt! Love you, Vikki


    Liked by 1 person

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