Threads

One winter, Uncle George and Aunt Bear started a game of knitted
stories. Everyone cast off together and began a tale. Talking in
turn, they interwove their characters lives, moving outward to
different parts of the world and events, the different patterns
teaching different lessons and involving new elements.

When the tale came to a close, one was chosen to tell both what the fate of the characters would be, as well as what the garment made would be used for, with so many hands at the wheel.

Sakura

A Springtime game was Sakura. In the late winter chill we would cut
branches of cherry blossom, the pink brilliant against the snow or
dull brown of the thawing mud. We were each samurai, young beautiful
men, Bishonen, born to live and die in transient splendor. Our lord
would send us on missions, scaling cliffs of fire, rescuing frost
maidens.

When we accomplished our task, we would strike the branch to
see how many blossoms would fall. If many, our fame would exceed the
glory of the sun, and the cost to our hearts would be as great: our
lover lost in the fire, our Daimyo cursed by the crystal Queen. If
few petals fell, our lives and our comrades were safe, and our task
become mundane, unbeautiful. A peasant sweeps his hut, a dog barks, no one is there.

Starlight

One game called for a litre of starlight. This frustrated me as a
child. I would complain to my Uncle George, how could such a thing be
done? He just scratched his head and said he knew there was a jar of
it somewhere. I would stomp away in a huff, accusing him of lying to
me.

Then, one day, when I was closing up the house after his death, in
a dusty cupboard I found a jar with luminescence inside. I picked it
up and opened the lid, and could see all around me, limned with
silver. Then nothing. I still have the jar. I leave it out under the
moonless sky some nights, hoping.