Fabricated

Yesterday was my dad’s birthday. He would have been 93. I didn’t mention this to the pieces of my mother that are still awake in her head. She’s taken a turn and started down a much steeper incline lately. Our calls are briefer as are her moments of complete lucidity. But she’s well taken care of with kindness in a place where she gets the medical attention and safety oversight she needs. A friend of mine who is a weaver has gotten me thinking lately of all the threads in our lives. I’m talking about the ones we use to create our individual whole cloth. Some of our threads eventually get swapped out. Some get pulled, or snag and end up with their tails trailing on the floor. But there are some threads that form the core of our cloth. The threads we choose to consciously keep close. To never let go. My dad’s love is one of those kinds of threads for me. My dad-threads are the color of my breath when it’s just this side of cold enough to see it on a not quite icy day. They glimmer throughout my cloth. My father was one of the most authentic humans I have ever known. He taught me how truth isn’t the enemy. How truth holds your cloth together in a way that enables it to survive knives and scissors, and mindless self harm. I’m so grateful I was born to the second son of a coal miner who held up a mirror flashing my self worth at me every damn day of my life when he was here. The mirror remains even though he’s gone.

Cinse Bonino
2023