My mother sewed
she was one of the things that characterized her.
Sewing, mending, creating was essential,
it was her freedom.
She sewed hopes.
She joined pieces.
She accommodated hearts.
She spent hours staring,
sometimes humming some old song
of her childhood or youth.
She moved her hands,
and the wheels remained on fire
some melody.
She didn't always sing.
I have seen piece together
with cold tears
I have seen her hands trembling,
I've seen her nervous
I have watched her smile
I have heard her sigh.
mumble under your breath,
curse hard
whistle softly...
All her clothes had
a bit of experiences
Many thoughts
some discontent
My mother sewed
and in that act,
she mended her life.