My garment of hope has grown thin-
frayed at the edges
threadbare and worn.
To be honest, it’s barely recognizable.
There have been times–
plenty of them, really,
when my garment is soaked–
hope dripping from the seams, filling the pockets.
But in its current state,
it’s a wonder it’s holding together.
The hanger’s edges poke through
when I try to hang it.
Most nights I gently fold it at the end of the bed
(except when, in frustration, I throw it on the floor).
Remarkably, it holds together.
And maybe our work right now
is to sew tiny patches on the garment of another–
weave fibers back together–
or to help each other remember just where we left it.
Like hearts broken and healed,
like arms linked together–
Fabric, however worn, is stronger when mended.
~mj 10.29.18
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