Some memories do not arrive; they drift. Mist Weave is a window at dawn, fogged
by the breath of someone who waited. White cotton threads are sewn over dyed
cloth like the careful mending of a grandmother's hands, each knot a small act of
patience, each hanging strand a thought left unfinished. Blues and greys dissolve
like a remembered sky. It is a quiet prayer for repair, a veil between what was lost
and what is gently returning.
