I sit in the non-descript room

A winding pattern of fabric in my lap

Looped and hooked by my own hand;

Blues and whites, heathers and just a touch of black

Now marred by a swath of bright pink.

You are there, in the corner

Sitting like me.

My hand finds the buried end, halfway into a row,

And pull,

The treble stitches unraveling with the ease of loose tension.

Away come skinned knees and salty tears, stern words

“Don’t be a baby.”

Away come moments, layers of them, words you didn’t speak outright

“You are not enough for this family.”

I pull and pull and pull,

Wondering why my vision blurs

And you sit there, a man I never knew, ready to leave here

If you saw my work, what would you think?

The kaleidoscope of navy, midnight, sapphire, and azure

How much will I never know?

I sit unwinding in our silence, neither of us looking at the other

Death is as much as it was in life, and I won’t presume

To understand who we were to each other, for certainly

Rosy yarn diminishing into spools at my feet was all you saw.

And when it’s done,

I stand in the non-descript room

A gentleman's cloak in hand, born from my own labor;

Coastal seas of blue with sprinkles of salt and pepper

With a final snip of the bird, that pink is severed from its tied tether

I see you there, in the corner

Standing like me.