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.

Postcard collage with blue background. Red square in the top right corner, green trees at the top

Over the threads you’ve spent hours on, I’ve stuffed my closeness in the softness of the linen.

Brass bowl