Some lives are meant only to tear holes in the tapestry.
Yet someone once told me that the world is also full of menders, gently pulling broken threads back into place.
And though there are times when I can only see the holes, there are others times when I can see them: The Menders, quietly tying together broken string.
Like the bent man with his stick and his dog, who walks along the highway from his house every morning. He doesn’t know I see him there, passing time in the way he’s always passed time. He doesn’t know that I look for him there, as a marker that some things stay the same. Yet always, he is there, and he mends as he walks.
Or the woman whose smile knows suffering. Who makes herself coffee quietly in her kitchen; who reads a book and still laughs, even though nothing can change the past. Her tears mend. Her loneliness mends. For with it she reaches out her arms and takes us all in.
There are others, too. Who don’t even know they’re doing it. You’re doing it and you don’t even know, maybe. Who says you’re not a mender, after all? Even if all you’ve done is make holes; even if you can’t feel yourself attached by a single thread. It’s always there: your mending.
In the rock art you left on the beach for someone else to see.
In the gas you lent to your neighbour when the power went out.
In the dog you pet yesterday as you passed.
Stitching up the seams between your life and mine because you know (as I know) that holes can always be patched.
For there has never been a lack of thread.
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Jessica Barratt 