The Seamstress

The rain pattered against the window with slow drowning beats giving what sounded like a base drummer giving the simple order of beats for the other musicians to fallow. An old women stands alone at a table covered with a sea of flowing fabrics, colors blending as the light swung over head, the room filled with sawing utensils and crafts, that when you took a glance it looked like a little hut in the mid 1600’s. The room smelled of sweet apple cinnamon as she held fabric in one hand a needle in the other, glistening in the dim light, making a sparkling trail of light across the fabric, giving off the feel like she was working with water instead of cloth. Before she began the room was silent almost dead, not a thing moved, almost as if she herself was frozen in time or a manikin being shown off on display. Then slowly she breathed in sucking up the air as images of color swam like a title wave though her mind leaving a sort of calm as she exhaled. She opened her eyes, an explosion of gold streaked the iris as green was woven into the spaces of blue giving her a steely gray color, her eyes flashed from gray to green the moment she started to move with the cloth, and at the same time it was like she was the conductor to an orchestra waving glistening thread to note the beats of a melody hidden behind rain. She started with the base, moving swiftly with her needle as the drums stoke with her, a slow and steady drone. Then putting more detail she glided to the center as she pulled on the strings that vibrated to life with sweet sorrow, Thunder boomed from beyond the window adding to the performance as if the brass aided the work with the strings, slowly southing as the rain continued drumming on the windows, The wind blew softly at first as she worked her way to the left shoulders, growing in strength as she moved farther away from the section, almost demanding her attention and growing quiet when she moved toward the section again almost like it was a game of tag. Finally putting the final pieces together the whole work bellowed with vibrancy as she stood back to observe her work, the dress almost like water moving freely in the light breeze of the cracked window, as the storm rages on, approving of her work. Suddenly she starts to fade, like sand in the wind, slowly blowing away till she was gone, and all that remained was the memories she had created with a single piece of art, a dress crafted of pure snow.