Elizabeth wore a long, flowing, patterned skirt. Unlike most women her age, her hair was long, its heavy gray bulk tied back in a low-riding pony tail. She looked like the kind of woman who made macrame wall hangings while eating granola and smoking pot in her hippie-style youth. Her skin was permanently crinkled into smile lines around her eyes, which shone with a vibrant, alert, brown light. Her movements were unhurried and graceful. The air around her body for a radius of several feet felt quiet and kind.
She was to be my therapist. I came here determined to say nothing, but when I saw Elizabeth I felt chattier than one of those lonely old ladies you see in the grocery store trying to hold a conversation with the checker. . . .
Leave a comment with your first 50 words on the topic “macrame.”
4 thoughts on “Macrame”
But Elizabeth had secrets that nothing could dislodge. In my need for the wisdom she portrayed, I forgot to keep some of my wounds private. It was these that undid me, for at the end of our therapy she asked me if I would go to Mexico with her. And I receded like a snail.
On the crowded sidewalk I strode in silence and wondered at the betrayal of mighty tongues who tell mighty lies.
P.S. Don’t know where this is going 🙂 But it sounds like the beginning of something.
Good to see you post again, thanks for commenting. I agree, it does sound like the beginning of something.
Sounds so familiar!
Funny; how a simple handicraft can identify an era. Hair styles sort of do that- i.e.,some folks get stuck in their college do’s or some style they deem becoming, no matter how goofy it looks to ensuing generations. Hair styles can announce ones self-view pretty well. But seeing macrame is something else. It conjures up images of all kinds of love; and an uprising of new, humanist beliefs amongst an entire generation. Looking at the oftentimes ugly stuff makes me wonder if that was the last time such a degree of like-mindedness existed in this country- and how many still wear the same hair style…