I've Got It Covered

I am covered in glitter, I am covered in glue. Chalk dust, eraser dust, snippets of thread.
I am covered in flour and sticky and sweet.
I am covered in yarn and in paper.
I have got out my power drill, my sewing machine, my KitchenAid army.
I am covered in ink and paper cuts. I am covered in bits of notes of things I want to do, say, remember.
I am covered in cinnamon.
I am covered in cherry red pleather.
I am covered in silk, in bamboo, in wool.
I have hooks, I have needles, I have bobbins and sharp, sharp scissors - don't touch!
(And don't you dare use them for paper.)

Each stitch is a poem, every seam a sonnet, I write love letters with every detail.
I sit or I stand and I work on this thing -  just so - and I think of you.

I have not held your hand in sixteen years. Here are some gloves made of wool and remembrance and love.

You have moved to a new place, so cheerfully and like a pioneer - strong, resourceful, adventuresome. Here are some tastes from home to remind you that you are loved so much and sweet and savory and naughty and decadent and good for the soul.

You have wept inwardly over many things this year, but you always look out your windows skyward and see the beauty. Here is this teacup turned into a buffet for birds, so they can come and dine on fine china and sing to you of how much I love you.

You have given warmth and home and comfort to so many people, and I've taken more than my share from you. Here is this blanket, the color of claret - thick and rich - and I've made cables running up it like the sweaters you love because you asked me to even though you were humble about it and because I would make the whole world with my two hands and give it to you if I could.

You have transformed, worked hard, burst free. Here is a bounty of blessings in return: silk scarf in peacock blue with a new hat to match because you and I always cut off all of our hair at the same time - unknowingly, unwittingly - and are in dire straits for new hats. I made them with jaunt and with silk and with bows and they startle with their softness like falling water, each motif in the scarf is a secret prayer of thanksgiving for you.

You have grown up somehow, while I have stayed the same. You were a toddler, a child, and now so far away, you have the beginnings of woman about you. Here is this bag I have fashioned you of brocade silk and found, vintage cotton - the silk is a reminder of the home your mother and I shared as young-as-you people, the strength of friendship, the bonds of the family we make with our love. The vintage cotton is your reminder that even things that are old - unspeakably old! - like me (and your mother) are beautiful and sassy and it all depends on the context, young lady.

And for you and you and you and you, I send some sweetness: some is the kind that you can eat, some is the kind that flows from permanent markers gripped tightly in small hands, and some is the kind that you can frame and hang up on a wall. I have no words but thank you for the sweetness that you bring in stringing the garlands of sparkle and twinkle that connect my family to you.

And for you, gentle readers, I haven't spared much time. For that, I apologize again and again.
Here is my post, I've carefully crafted it for you. I want it to tell you the meaning behind the actions. The import behind the absence. I become ridiculous and stutter with my fingers when I think of ways to thank you for reading and thinking and indulging me so. You are all blessings and I would knit you all mittens if I could.


I am covered in glitter, I am covered in glue.
I am covered in love and in forgiveness, in connection, in transcendent joy.