The Seamstress

The Seamstress

By Stacia Clark
I knew a girl with a permanent tear in her eye—born into this world frantic and wild.
Her soul was not meant to be here; it was too pure, too kind.
She took the pain of the entire world and carried it.
The pain pulled on her.
It rushed over her, a vicious tidal wave, grabbing on, sucking her in, threatening to swallow her whole.
Her arms flailed, her lungs filled with salt and sorrow, she began to fade, and then she saw it—
another soul thrashing about in the night, bobbing to and fro in the darkness.
She grabbed onto that heart so tight, her hands steadied, she stopped flailing, she calmed, and she pulled a sterile needle from her pocket.
They sat together in the darkness, and the seamstress began to sew. Her hands were steady, her words a sweet lullaby, she sat all night sewing away.
All night she sewed, a thread woven in light, each stitch a promise, giving hope in the night.
Soon the birds began to chirp, the sun peeked out from the horizon, signaling a new day.
You looked for her, but she was gone. “There are so many souls here, and the war here is not yet won,” she said, and she dove into the sea, needle in hand.