By Kokoro Still
Some things are not sewn to be seen.
My grandmother never said this aloud,
but I learned it from the way she moved—
how her fingers paused before each stitch,
as if listening.
She did not rush.
The thread did not pull tight.
The needle moved gently,
without effort.
What she stitched was not just fabric,
but time,
and memory,
and silence.
And now, when I try to remember her,
I do not see her face clearly.
But I remember the stillness
of the thread between her hands—
and perhaps,
that was her Kokoro.
The Needle That Did Not Rush
She always sewed in the early afternoon,
when the light from the window
fell softly across the tatami.
There was no music.
No television.
Only the slight sound of thread pulling through cloth,
and the breath she held between stitches.
I would sit nearby,
pretending to read.
But I was watching.
Not her face—
but the rhythm of her hands,
the way she folded the hem without measuring,
as if the cloth had already told her
where it wanted to end.
A Thread That Remembers
Some fabrics had been mended more than once.
Tiny stitches, barely visible,
lined up along a seam
like the quiet footsteps of someone returning home.
She never explained.
Only once did she say,
“This one lasted longer
because someone took the time to repair it.”
I didn’t understand then.
But now I think—
the thread remembers.
Not in words,
but in the way it softens where it was once broken.
In how it holds,
not too tightly,
but just enough
to keep something from falling apart.
Listening with the Hands
Sometimes she would sew without looking.
Her eyes on the window,
but her hands moving with certainty—
as if they remembered something her mind had long forgotten.
I think some things can only be heard through the fingertips.
A tear in the cloth.
The thickness of a patch.
The place where the fabric changed.
When I hold something she made,
I don’t just see her skill.
I feel the quiet that her hands once gave.
Not focused like a task,
but offered—
like a hand reaching out in silence.
The Fabric of a Day
Each day felt like something quietly arranged.
The tea poured.
The cushion adjusted.
The thread returned to its place in the sewing box.
Nothing was rushed.
Nothing left undone.
Even the way she folded the small cloth
at the end of her work—
not to display,
but simply to rest—
felt like a part of the day’s rhythm.
Only the shape of a day—
creased slightly by time,
but never disturbed.
What Still Holds
I no longer remember what she was making.
Only that the thread moved slowly.
Only that she paused,
not because she was unsure,
but because the stillness mattered.
Now, when I sew,
my hands are less certain.
But sometimes,
when the room is quiet
and the light is soft,
I feel something return.
Not a memory.
Not a lesson.
Just the thread—
still holding.
Perhaps what moved between her hands
was what we call
Kokoro.
Featured image: The image was created by AI (ChatGPT)
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