When we were young and the simulation of flying could be had as we zoomed down the street on our glinting, cerulean bikes, streamers vertical, sailing at the tips of our handlebars. These days where the monarch’s flight could plunge us into the blue, what lies beyond? What lies beyond? And we become dizzy as we come back down to earth to witness the wayward worm, wriggling in desperation beyond its hole, over the pavement so hot that the wads of filthy chewing gum stuck there have gone molten, their pink centers winking at us. The halcyon days. The days where colors were scented, these that would embed there in the memory for eternity: white smells like silver, and pink is the smell of raspberry-rose. Days of skinned knees decorated with scabs so thick, like dark beetles that one day fall off and disappear sure as the tears that came upon their arrival, ever forgotten. These are the days that are sheathed in the crevices of our brains, that come back in ephemeral snatches, little mercies that brighten our moments, now so commonly ruled by worry and fear and all the grown-up feelings that we raced toward when we didn’t understand just how perfect things have always been.
70”L x 17” wide in linen so fine it feels like butterfly wings. The orange bit is Italian. The rest is organic (except for the plaid bit). There is a swatch of it rust dyed by me, and a bit of stitching across the width of the thing, just because.
A million thank yous for buying handmade. It’s wonderful to know that someone, somewhere is wearing something that I crafted with more love than I could possibly convey.