i think of the tear in my skirt
and how its threads strayed,
unkempt. how i never learned
to sew because my grandma
always put everything back
together. how much i missed her
that day. how a small tear really meant
nothing in the grand scheme of things
because the skirt was still beautiful, and
maybe i no longer need
lola's help, and maybe things
were more beautiful when they were
fraying. but fraying
is too beautiful a word for
brokenness: i picture a burning blaze
of threadbare strength, carrying on.