My Father made this coat for me – for this life, this path.
It has served and kept me warm, redolent with memory.
Over years, random threads of joy, needlework of love
and friends who appliquéd silken colours on darkness
embroidered this unique and cherished patchwork.
The years have worn it thin, spans now threadbare.
Moths come secretly, holes appear, circumstances rend.
Edges start to fray: a distant cousin, a friend of friend.
Then larger holes leave deeper pain. Colour dissolves
in bleak bewildering winds; cherished motifs vanish.
The task of mending grows. Small darns are easy made,
but how can I un-rend the patchwork panels torn away?
My Father gives me darning wool and random scraps
with which to make repairs. It’s not the same, it can’t be.
Yet I must learn to craft with grace, trust for warmth again.
— Christine Rigden
