Vignettes of Life

Needle and Thread

(The picture I got inspired to write this vignette from)

Putting the thread through the needle. The needle through the cloth. All. Day. Long. It can be tough sometimes. When I look at the needle, it looks as if it’s hurting or tired. Just like me. There are many of us, working hard. Making clothes for those above us. The ones who can spend millions easily, something we dream of.

‘Lunch Break!’                                                                                           

When we all hear that, it’s just music to our ears that I nearly cry as though someone died. Relief we can finally eat. Work is tough but bearable. Lunch is amazing, and we get a tiny break so me and all the girls play 4 stones and talk about the world and what we did and everything. It’s just great to have many sisters.

‘Back to work!’                                                                                         

Just the thought of those words give my whole body goosebumps as if I’m in a chilled fridge. It’s not the work, it’s the silence that’s hard. Slowly as we put our needle through our cloth you can hear the cloth rip a bit, something we usually can’t hear. Even a question can’t be asked without those 2 men staring directly through your soul sharp as if someone will kill us if we talk. We usually look down as they walk with those loud elephant stomps around us as we work. I feel bad for the floor sometimes, those men’s shoes hits the floor so hard the noise sounds as if it’s crying. I think thoughts like this a lot as I work. In silence.

‘Time to go!’                                                                                              

These words are just blank to my ears. I don’t really know what to think of this. I’m happy to go home and sleep for 5 hours, but sad to leave my work and my friends. Maybe it’s more. I’m not sure.


Home. A place built with wood, bricks, or sticks. Some people have many homes. Big, small, old, new. But I only have one. Mother says that home is not defined by a place to live in, that home is used to survive. Home is where your family is, so I only have one home. But why do I only have one?   

Mother is the reason I’m here, breathing. She’s the first person to ever call me. She made me her perfect girl. Her princess. Everyone has a mother, at least for awhile. She was the only one I ever had. Some had 2, one who was just like my mother, and the other a little taller and hair shorter than hers. I never knew why I had one mother, she never told me.

Yesterday I was walking home alone, and then this lady came up to me and asked,

“Are you lost? Where’s your mother? Where’s your father?”

I didn’t know what a father was. I was so confused.

“I’m going to my mother, but what is father?”

She just looked at me like I was injured and needed money. Petty.

“Never mind, you should go to your mother now bye.”

I wondered if she was talking about the other mother I always see kids with. The mother I never had…

Mother would never tell me what “father” was. I never tried asking since she never mentioned it, but I need to know.

“What is father?”

“You know the mother with more shorter hair and taller, that’s the father.”

Wow I didn’t expect her to say it so easily.

“Why don’t I have a father?”

“Cause sometimes homes are smaller than others that’s just the way the world works, but it doesn’t mean the love is any smaller my dear.”

I finally got what my mother meant about our home and others. Our home is only one while others have many. But I only need one home.

My House                                                                                                    

Not a cottage style house. Not on a busy street that has cars roaring by. Not a loud house. Not a parent’s house. A house that is all mine with my big backyard, my color. choice, and my personality decorated throughout the house. My stories and accomplishments will be thrown all around my house adding character and personality. My history and life will be scattered in every room. A house where nobody can tell me that an item doesn’t belong in a certain place. A house where my privacy is all mine. Where nobody’s mess will become mine because my house will only be mine.

It would be the perfect place to sit and watch the sun rise, or the rain fall. Everywhere you turn, light would be. It would feel so free. My house would breathe breaths of creativity and laugh laughs that explodes in art, spattering its interior with everything worth living for.     

Only a house as unique as a fingerprint, a space to find myself and discover me. A house as large as life. A house that nobody else can call home, but me. A house that relates to me, and a house that people can see, touch, and relate to me. This is my house.

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