They place a name like crafts or hobby. Making something from something. String is something else.
When an aunt brought back threads relatives made, we eyed their decoration microscopically as easily reproduced. Used linen, bobbins, and whatever else they’d send. Spent as too daunting, disciplined, hardened. Given up to wrinkled, shawled old women sitting by window light. Hunched over their knees. Vermeer paintings.
He was speaking of Bruges at the end. 101 first airborne, locked up. But, wooden shoes, hearty foods, tradition. Belgian dug in as arthritic pigeon claws. Lost in squinted pushes on a million pins. Stick swishes with rhythmic cross, twist, cross. Lost in the cracks of whitewashed walls. Calls past generations draped in grace