Mending

 A writing friend,

a kindred spirit,

a compassionate woman,

has been diagnosed

with a rare form of cancer.

And I'm looking for some way

to comprehend catastrophe.

My mother had a mending basket.

You remember the kind:

wicker with a satin padded lining.

It held needles and pins and bobbins.

My mother didn't like to sew.

But she loved to mend.

I remember her darning socks 

with consummate skill.

I rummage about in my work basket.

I have needles blunt and sharp,  

crochet hooks of all sizes 

and a weaver's shuttle.

But unlike my mother who was a 

great prayer warrior I seem

to have no skill at mending.

My penchant for ripping out

and starting over precludes

mending.

I can't remember what happened

to Mama's lovely old fashioned basket.

But the memory of it is clear.

I picture Mama's fine stitches

repairing the rent in a sock...

an almost invisible seam.

I pray to Mama:

Help me mend 

the tear in my soul.