Her perfect work.

Her perfect work.

By Chaeyeon Lee

They stepped back.

There lay the shimmering mirage; each thread tightly wound in each other’s embrace. Each dyed hue seeping into its miracle. Every winding needle path decorating its glory. It was a grandeur serenaded with praises of silk and satin.

Admiration tinted her lips and blushes of pride and pink adorned her cheeks. She turned, beaming, at the man beside her whose grin outlasted her own. He almost blurted out a whisper of his awe when a sudden stillness echoed around her small studio, bouncing off each fluttering sheet that littered the bare concrete ceiling, only to land on his lips as she hushed his words with her hands.

She shook her head.

His smile grew wider beneath her worn fingers. She lowered her hands.

Her workshop was always in the peace of her silence.

She never spoke in her workshop. Instead, she spun her tale with the nimble tumbling of her stitches that dived into the ocean of linen that drowned her. Every day she sailed valiantly in that white sea, adrift upon its rough waves. She charted her course with every vibrant thread that dared to rock her galleon. And with each and every stitch that lapped her ship, colours bloomed upon the blank ocean. Soon, the sea was no longer just white. It dripped with colours that glowed as it was sprayed by the blessing of afternoon light. With every sinking of her needling anchor, she conquered her sea.

She gingerly reached down to his hands and locked her fingers into his. Tugging slowly, she crouched the pair into the lower fringe of the large tapestry. In that tight embrace of her worn fingers and his softer hands, she leaned gently into the large fabric that dangled in front of her. From the golden border, both fingers began to trace the track of slivers of embroidery that lined the surface of the behemoth of a cloth, beginning from the tips of the pointed shoes that tapped the floor.

Warmth lingered in their gentle caress. It murmured a touch of affection as their hands ventured to trace her path. The soft breeze slowly rocked the fabric from their fondle and like a cradle, rocked itself back onto the tips of their fingers, almost as if it too, longed for the love that they shared. And it was this love that trickled into the way their hands moved; a waltz of two that glided from the shoes to the intricate maze of lace that shone on the veil and began a tango when it found itself at the hemline of a suave tuxedo. Their dance steeped in the music of their smiles led them to the elegance of the gown, its every small-beaded flower and petal, to the shyly curled roses that bloomed in the bride’s hands. Each swooping turn landed them upon another maze of shining golden threads that crowned each hem. Their steps pitter-pattered onwards, twirling at the grin that adorned the groom’s face and leaping to the same smile reflected upon the bride’s. At last, the silent dance halted to a bow at the clasped hands of the bride and groom who shone upon the tapestry. Two small bands of thread glittered upon their intertwined hands that had finally finished their dance.

He stood as awe washed over him. Wave after wave.

Her work was perfection, from the minute details that only soft touches could unveil, to the swooping web of emboldened threads that stood apart from the rest. He knew the years behind her work; hours of thimble touches and pricked yelps. He knew this was her masterpiece, her grandest passion birthed into life by her love. And that love, he knew, was for him.

The sight, the thought, the passion. He pushed back an avalanche of emotions that threatened to wreak havoc upon his calm façade. But it rippled on the surface nonetheless. The waves ebbed into trembling eyes, soaking the shore of his lashes. The sight of her husband taken aback amused her. Laughter glinted in her eyes as she crinkled a soft giggle. Years of the same laughter threaded her nose intertwined with the flowing lines that trickled from her eyes and her cheeks were embroidered the same rosy hue as her bouquet. The same threads flowed further onto her hands, curling around the fingertips that had created that masterpiece.

“How long has it been? Seventy years?” he asked.

“Almost seventy, I’m sure.” she murmured back.

He chuckled.

“Almost seventy.” He repeated in almost disbelief.

“That’s close to forever.” Shaking his head, he leaned back towards her.

She looked quietly back up at him.

“Then forever it is.”

Their laughter gravitated towards each other, their giggling echoing from one lip to the other until it collided in a kaleidoscope of fondness. The threading lines of countless smiles, kisses and laughter led onto one another as their paths intertwined across their chins. The blushing hue seeped further into each other, mimicking their reddish warmth. Light glanced off their connected shoulders, reflecting quietly into the floating canvas in front of them. It bounced back in a glow upon their hair, where white melted into grey. Their feet gently rocked to the silent rhythm of time that they had spent together: slow in tempo but steady, gentle, loving. Interlocking buttons clicked as they knocked on themselves, crowding like beads upon the tapestry. A soft satin collar brushed against a silky blouse, rustling a serenade of love in the quiet studio. They enjoyed the serenade for a long while, their cheeks now aglow in the setting sun. Their hands never let go of their embrace all this time, rings clinking a wedding chime as they held it tighter. The lines carved into their fingers by every embrace weaved in between each other, ravelled to spin their tale of marriage that had outlasted decades.

They were the perfect image of love; the real tapestry that had taken her years to perfect.