You see, I’ve tried to ignore the blistering remarks, face the scathing
judgments that leave me raw
pricking through
the cadaverous colored patches of my clothes that cling to me,
Threadbare
I cradle my needle and thread
This time, selecting rich dark brown cotton, the shade of my hair—my
hands
trembling, weave a stitch or two
each one unfurling like petals of a long-forgotten flower,
the shade of the mud and dried blood
unraveling into pink and lavender hues
Suddenly
I’m back in hell
hearing the pelting gunshots, the ear-piercing screams
I am back, burning as I cradle my motionless sister
prying open her glazed eyes, grasping onto her caked hands,
crying, shouting, and begging her
to just wake up
My home is hell – crumbling under piles of rubble and corpses
My home is hell – stained with blood and the wails of my people
How can you insist that I am stealing from you
when I have already been stripped clean?
How can you blame me for all the bloody mess
when I have come here just to escape?
How can you try to suppress my voice
When I’ve traveled all this way to share my story?
On the finished product, my fingers trace
the lavender stitches of my sister’s memory
the pale blue knots of my mother’s love
the orange threads of my brother’s rhythmic humming
colors entwining into a pattern that I call my path to hope
Here it is,
woven from the pain of my past
Here it is,
a gift for you
Here it is –
a reminder of life
This is our story