Mother's Day: A Poem About Patches

Yesterday I patched my flannel sheets.
They are at least 7 years old, about Genevieve's age.
Ecru linen patches on white flannel.
I could buy new sheets.
But no.

Patches mean life,
real life was lived here and this thing was used hard.
This thing was not thrown out, but rather patched up for more hard work.

Ben took his shoes off in the middle of the day,
and there was his toe peeping out of his blue sock.
"Put your socks on my sewing table tonight, Ben."
And he did.
And I will find some bright thread left from another project
and I will fill in the hole.
He will wear the darned socks again.
I will wash them, and hang them on the line.
The darn will settle into the sock,
a sign of grace
extended to a weak spot.

We live here.
We work and play.
You can buy ripped jeans and shabby chic stuff at the mall,
cool, but they do not mean real life.
Better we should see our own holes,
our patches,
the beautiful mending,
the love.