When The Line Trembled

For a while, I was riding it high.

The braid was humming. I was painting every day, my hands knew what to do. We were in good health, walking in the forests, feet on the old deer trods, breathing that green, mossy air. I felt strong in the weave.

Then the line trembled.

We received the kind of news that stops the breath. The kind of news that stills the hands and quiets the forest path. The kind of shadow that falls across the hearth.

And when the line trembles for one of us, it trembles for both. My hearth-companion and I — we both trembled.

So I laid things down. I laid down my brushes. I laid down my walking staff. I stepped off the trod for a while, not because the path had gone, but because the hearth needed tending.

I have not been idle. I have been holding. I have been sitting with the fire.

The braid did not break. It is still here, waiting. The tendrils are still waving, even if my hands have been too full to weave them.

And now, slowly, I feel a thread coming back into my fingers.