Our suitcases never sit idle. They are all overflowing with varying fabrics, half-made, half-worn, half-forgotten, half-in-waiting. I think I might have forgotten the clothes I grew up on. But on occasion, when there was something I particularly loved, my mother would pull out a box of cookies and from it came out needles and a strange sowing kit. With my arms extended, floating around her laughter, she would measure a body that my eyes watched morph into colours I’d almost forgotten how to see, and from her tongue came words that until today, I’ve hidden into patterns and lines.