The weaver took the strips. Striking in their hues of red, some so steeped in the agency of love that their red was almost black, their touch velveteen, plumpness perfect as a cushion.
Other pieces needed kneading and rolling and the stretching brought their colour to barely a blush. These were the pieces where love had failed to thrive. The weaver kept them in the pattern for the purity of feeling deserved to be retained. There was an honesty to this whole business.
Length was not a measure for the craftsman. The weaver was instead adept at extracting depth and intention, and the pliability that comes with loving what’s revealed and receiving what’s freely given.
The weaver’s woven chamber wasn’t flesh, just the makings from flesh. The caresses, the whispers, the grasping, the companionship, the hollows, the laughter, the compassion, the touch, the taste, the missing, it was all there, the fibres of the fabric of relationship.
The weaver looked at me expectantly. I nodded and the heart was placed inside with care. It was like putting aside a fundamental truth. I was asking myself to operate without a key muscle, a key guide, a key to many doors in myself and in my world.
The heart lay gentled, thinking this was some kind of treatment. Until it realised it was treatment by exclusion.
What happened next was interesting. By turns the heart, wrapped in its stories and sureties, in its chamber, on a shelf, behind a cupboard door, and separated from the mysteries of the mind, spent days howling at the missing, and days quite content in its loving of him, simply knowing this love is what life’s about.