Needle and Bone

Life.

What could be said about life? Life is an anomalous tapestry; carefully yet spontaneously crafted. It can be long, winding, seemingly eternal. It can be fleeting; cut short before it has been lived. It is the culmination of who one is; the amalgamation of a thousand different aspects to create one human. One living, breathing, fragile human. And then, there is death. What could be said about death? Death is the finality of it all; the absolute. It is the pallid, unerring, dreadful foil to the fragile sprightliness of life. It comes in many ways. Quick. Slow. Peaceful. Painful. Loved. Alone. And it stops for no one.

Life and death. Two sides of the same coin. Cut and dry. Said and done. But…is there not more than life and death? There is. The Weaver knows better than

anyone.

The Weaver, though her name has been lost to time, is responsible for the inscrutable overlap between blossoming life and withering death. She is responsible for every second of every memory of every life that comes to be. She is responsible for remembrance. Every person’s life, no matter how short, long, chaotic, or uneventful, is a life The Weaver witnesses, and a life she must remember. From a person’s cradle to their deathbed, The Weaver watches. She watches an infant’s first tiny cry. She watches a little boy’s game-winning play at a sports event. She watches a young man’s marriage, and soon enough, the birth of his first child. She watches an old man’s quiet death, alone in a cold, sterile hospital room. People wake up. People go to work. People go home. People go to sleep. People talk and kiss and fight and bustle about. It is just another day in their lives. No matter how mundane, The Weaver watches. The Weaver sorts through the endless stream of memories. A little girl’s victory at the school spelling bee she spent months preparing for. An older gentleman’s first successful novel at the age of 78 he had been trying for years to get published. A person’s unforgettable trip to Angkor Wat, a trip they never imagined in their wildest dreams they would take. But through every spelling bee win, through every bestselling book, through every remarkable, life-changing trip, The Weaver sees the same thing over and over as she watches the people. They are born. They live. They die. And when one dies, The Weaver gets to work.

| McKenna Baxter

All she needs are the memories she has collected over the years, her trusty, wellused needle, and a bone from the deceased. The memories serve as the tapestry’s design. They tell the tale of the person’s life. Every memory, no matter how insignificant, has shaped the person’s life in some small way. The Weaver is adamant on including it all. The needle serves as The Weaver’s tool for her work. She feels a loom is much more impersonal, and though use of a needle for the task is more tedious, she welcomes the challenge. And the bone…well, the tapestry is imbued with the bone. Bit by bit. And so, The Weaver works. Sweat and blood. Needle and bone. Eyes closed as she weaves, movements fluid as water as the life of the deceased plays over, and over, and over in her mind. She cycles through the shorter lives only a hundred times or so. Some of the longer ones, millions. The tapestry for each person is only complete once The Weaver has finished weaving, and when the last of the bone is one with the fabric. It is a thankless task, but The Weaver needs no thanks. She is pleased with herself for the work she does, quite literally interweaving the intricacies of life and death. The Weaver’s only wish is for a tapestry of her own. But what would it look like? Would it merely depict her innumerable years weaving tapestries for others, and even more incalculable years simply watching? Or would it be a beautiful assortment of all the tapestries she has ever created? She feels it in her heart that she will not live forever, though it feels like she has. She knows not when, but someday, a new Weaver will emerge to take her place. Perhaps to give her the tapestry she yearns for, the tapestry she deserves. Until then, The Weaver is perfectly content to carry on. No. Not content. Happy. The Weaver is happy. She smiles. It is a dazzling smile, a smile brighter than the pearlescent reflection of the moon in the sea. She closes her eyes as she grasps her needle, a soft, fulfilled sigh escaping her lips. And so, The Weaver works. Sweat and blood. Needle and bone.