Stitch

The people were made of stitches.
Tiny black stitches, austere against the stark cream ones that formed into the people’s face, represented hairs, eyes, and little gothic fingernails. Each had been done with excessive care, lifting and darting in and out. A button was placed to mark where umbilical chords were intended, a single long strand of the maker’s hair wrapped around to show the mother’s gift. The stitch people were dressed in wax paper dresses, the perfect amount of heat on metal rods used so that the paper would burn into intricate lace patterns.
The people were her only joy.
Her dusty bookshelves were covered in them- billions of stitches and hundreds of sheets of wax paper. Each had a name. Each had a little story about them.
But the queen of these people, as the woman had decided, was set upon a seat of satin and wood-painted-to-resemble-gold that rested casually on the faux wood cased television set. From this perch, Persephone would watch her people with noble grace, dictating to them with a sewn slit of a mouth; the woman loved to watch it, often times sitting for hours in the mint recliner sipping coffee as the characters would bustle over the shelf, listening to the orders and dictations.
The latest project involved making a cover for the framed picture of a man in the corner. Persephone was quite keen on getting it done as soon as possible- there had always been something about him that had seemed not quite right. She had tried before to mention the oddity to the woman when the man had lived here, but blinded by love, the woman disregarded her. Her kindness in cleaning up the mess touched the woman slightly- she had even provided a bit of cloth so that they could complete it faster.
On the day of the veiling, the woman found herself attempting to look presentable. She brushed her deep brown hair seventy-six strokes, then concentrated seven more on her graying temples, tying it into a heavy bun before polishing her glasses until they were spotless. She wore the silver cross her mother had given her on her confirmation day. Her shoes were patent leather, with thick heels and closed toes that made the children at church think of Easter dresses and never of adult dances, her dresses making them think of their grandmothers’ couches. Without glancing in the mirror, she left her room and walked towards the centralized bookshelf, her index finger thumping against the paneled walls.
“Promise not to cry,” Persephone demanded as she entered. “I cannot stand crying.”
The woman simply nodded.
“Water makes stitches come loose.”