Abbi Cressman
As the worker’s hands pushes their needle into the thread, a baby is brought into the world. The color is powder blue, a perfect mimic of the sky that day in mid-August. The worker starts in on a pattern, and that pattern will follow the newborn babe for the rest of her life.
As the baby grows, both the color and pattern changes. “Bob, stop it! Stop!” she cries as her brother grabs her forearm, trying to pull her back as she runs away. She escapes, and when she looks down at her arm, it is a bright red. She huffs and blows the unkempt, shaggy brown hair out of her face before running to tattle on her older sibling. The worker’s thread is a brick red as they weave this angry and hurtful tale into the girl’s life.
The thread is not always drawing out stories of pain and spite. The color of anger is actually one of its least-used colors.
As the girl approaches her new elementary school for the first time, nervous feelings roll around in her stomach, along with those of excitement and happiness. She walks into her school, feeling the worn blue carpet beneath her feet and the nylon backpack straps weighing on her back. Her mouth hangs open as the world expands beyond her household for the first real time. Once sitting in the classroom, the girl looks around nervously at her other classmates. She turns to the girl next to her and asks, “Do you want to be my friend?” “Sure!” the other, pig-tailed girl replies, smiling. The girl turns back to the teacher, feeling better now that she had someone to be her friend throughout the perilous days of school. The worker’s thread began to outline the shape of school in the color of the sun. Warm and mellow at times, yet blinding and burning at others. The color of friendship.
Flash-forward six years to the girl’s first day of middle school. She eagerly left most of her elementary school friends behind to go somewhere new, exciting. It was her first day at Cab Calloway. She walked into the building with much the same feeling as the first day of elementary school. Nervous, scared, but the undertone of excitement kept her happy. The building, to say the least, was in shambles. There were no ceiling tiles, many of the lights didn’t work, there were broken seats, broken windows, broken doors. But to the girl, this was the palace of the gods. This was exactly where she belonged, and it showed from the first day. The worker’s thread weaved in and out gracefully that day, a vibrant purple already working to cover the mistakes that had been made earlier, back when the thread was a blinding yellow.
This girl knew that she wanted to stay in this magnificent place, so when the time came for everyone to worry about high school, her heart was already set. She would stay here. So she worked hard to put together her best work to show. Those days were black with determination. Her work paid off, and sure enough, the letter she got in February had good news when she opened it. She would be coming back to Cab.
Her first day of ninth grade was unlike any of her others. Instead of walking in, timid and scared, she walked in, proud to be a part of this wonderful school. Here she will spend the next four years, which could be the best, or the worst, of her life. Her tapestry is still being woven, waiting for more, new colors, new patterns to be added. The worker has only just begun to weave the story of this girl’s life. |
