The stitches appearing at her command to the rat-a-tat-tat of her little hand upon that great big wheel. Whoosh…whoosh. The material slipped seamle...sly through her fingers. Just as the final sands slipped from the top of the hour glass. Pooled at the bottom. Ready to be turned. To begin again. Another turn at the fabric of life…fragile though its stitches be. She held up the tiny dress. It was so small. So impossibly small. Like the doll dresses that Nana had made for her at that ancient. They loved each other. And even then they couldn’t gather the courage to have another baby. That decision must have been tough, it must have shaken her from within, but not as much as receiving the news of her husband’s death in a car accident 9 years later. He left her a fortune, but no one to spend it on. You can always find her playing with the kids in a garden or smoking in her balcony. I never really paid much attention to her. I didn’t really know her. In fact, I didn’t really know anyone. More

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