The needle pops in and out,
one crooked stitch after another.
She knots off the edge,
Her bandaged fingers sluggishly knotting
Once. Twice. Three times for luck.
God knows she needs it.
The ribbons go next
To tie the cloth behind the ears.
Blindly reaching for the ribbons,
Her eyes graze upon the sheet lying on her desk.
It would have made more sense if it was black:
As ominous as an inky night, foretelling of bad fortune.
But no.
It could be mistaken for printer paper:
It minced her life’s dreams with a vicious smile.
No job. No friends. No kids. No parents.
Job lost, friends forgotten,
kids miles away, parents locked in senior centers.
The cloth in her gauzed-up fingers is her only drive forward.
If she can’t help herself why not help others?
No matter if her pay is blue and black fingers,
The blood she is losing is for a cause like no other.
Life cannot be replaced:
Those who say the opposite are liars.
So she makes these masks for
Her children who love her 200 miles away,
Her parents who call her every single day.
These masks even go to
Her boss who gave her a pitying smile when he handed her the slip,
Her bank associate who tried to explain why her card was bouncing.
So she picks up a needle and chooses a string.
Eight minutes later, the strand passes through.
Stitch after stitch after little crooked stitch,
She knots the ribbon with a donation of her own blood.
Once. Twice. Three times for luck.
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