Spool of Life
Look carefully, there lies the rooster at my feet, waiting for me to untangle him or step over him. Finally, the choice is mine. I look down at the spool, the thread is tough. The untangling will cut my fingers. It would be easier to just mess him up some more or walk over him, ignore him as he lies at my feet. He is beautiful here too, the coxcomb red, the rest of him in shades of pink and white. My feet, splayed and brown, contrast so sharp with his beauty. Yet, he is weak, asking to be sorted out, like my man does. “Sort me out and let me cut your thick fingers as you do so,” his mean eyes say.
I will spend hours doing this, my lifetime maybe. I should go but his wanting draws me in, I want to help and support. And once he is unspooled he will be supplicant no more, he will string himself to the kite he wants to fly with. I will watch and wait for him to land once again at my feet, when he is cut away by another string that takes the kite.
This spool of thread is only mine for as long as it lies here, asking to be helped. When straightened out, it leaves me. I know that I am being strung along as I untangle him with my fingers, with all of me. He will leave me to tie himself with a kite, a pretty paper thing. It will cut him off, taking a part of him, and he will fall again at my feet. We survive this spool of life, the pattern desperate. I want to hold him, despite the harshness against my hands. He wants to fly, even though he is no kite.
turn the page: Family Outing
notes on the process