Enceinte Holobiont 

I start sewing at the dining room table while my child naps. As I sew the fabric stretches and tears. A piece of yarn pokes through. My hand holds the yarn in place methodically looping back and forth. The same action repeated tirelessly, mindlessly. I sit and loop. I slide my hand through the stocking as the fabric calls to be inspected. My body becomes the piece. The yarn gently moves as I twist my wrist changing form, adapting to the imposed stress of movement. The loose threads find their place after each sway. My child cries, and my body responds.

Untitled (Mothering)

I mend the accidental tears and cuts. Jude sees me using a needle and thread and tells me to be careful not to poke my finger.

The muted shades of nylon are soft to touch. I feel a sense of shelter when I place it on my lap. My hands gently hold the delicate fabric as I stitch the harsh open hole I made with scissors. I tenderly stab the fabric, repeatedly weaving the thread through in loops. The sharp needle threatens to pierce my skin. Jude watches with nervous anticipation. Hoping I take care of myself. Hoping I take care of the fabric. I feel his eyes on me, and I reassure him I am trying my best even if my best falls short. I lose my sense of place. I drop the fabric, and it slips off my legs onto the floor.

Jude jumps up and grabs it before I can. He puts it to his cheek and looks at me with knowing. Knowing my pain. Knowing my despair. He knows it. He has felt when I am lost with no map to bring me home. I am his sense of place, his home. His eyes stare into my own, and he hands the nude covering to me. He gently whispers, "here you go, mommy. You got to be careful." I respond, "yes, my child. I will try my best." His words bring me back. I smile and wrap the covering over us, and he giggles. I hear Elias crying for me, and I leave Jude alone with fabric over his face, watching me walk away.

  

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Olivia de Fleuriot Perry

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