Since they were little, Nerea and Clara understood that life could be sewn and threaded. They played with blunt needles, basting scraps of old cloth to dress dolls and dreams. Each stitch was a promise: When we grow up, we will be seamstresses.
Clara used the needle with great precision. Nerea, with a unique passion.
And between tin thimbles, loose buttons and balls of colors, a friendship was woven as strong as the most resistant thread. Their fabrics bore the marks of their fingers impregnated with heart. Everything that is done with enthusiasm turns out well, they said to each other.
Over the years, the needle of life took them on different paths, Clara traveled, got to know the world, sewed her story with patches of many cultures and landscapes.
Nerea chose to stay. She found love in a simple man, with warm hands and a voice of peace. It was her haven of serenity. With him she sewed a home, embroidered the names of her children on each pillow and used the thimble of love every day to protect herself from the pricks of life.
Time passed. Gray hairs arrived, and with them, some forgetfulness. Nerea, who used to thread the thread without looking, now hesitated. She got lost in memories, in dates, in words that used to come alone, she cried sometimes because she realized that she longed for her husband's husband and he was no longer there. Her light was not so clear. But something inside her remained alive, intact: her love, that was still a soft silk, like the hugs to her children.
The invisible thread that still united her to her husband, even though he was no longer there, was fixed in her memory.
One day, Clara returned. They met again on an autumn afternoon, under a golden light that seemed to wrap them in a soft blanket. They hugged, cried, laughed. And between stories and silences, Clara took her friend's hand.
I think you still have the thimble in your heart, Nerea, she said. Even though your mind sometimes wanders, you are still sewing love. To your children, to the memories, to those of us who are still with you. I can perceive that.
Nerea smiled, with her eyes full of that mixture of sadness and gratitude that only those who have loved deeply like her have.
Sometimes it's hard for me to find the needle, she whispered.
But the girl I was hasn't left, she's like starch, there without wrinkling, She guides me. She tells me to keep darning. That as long as I remember her voice, and hug my children, I can still sew hope and embroider illusions with threads of affection.
Do you remember Nerea, that when everyone was asleep, you could hear your needle quietly, as if it were a beloved voice, a beautiful voice, his... the one that still lives in your chest like an embroidery that never fades.
And so, with a ball of soft words, the two friends continued sewing together.
Because there are seams that time cannot undo. And there are threads, those of love, friendship, that never break, no matter how much time passes.
Seamstresses of the Canary Islands, those that last and do not break even if the trade winds blow, because ENTHUSIASM still prevails.
And when everyone was asleep, you could hear your needle quietly, as if it were a beloved voice, a beautiful voice, his... the one that still lives in your chest like an embroidery that never fades.
I dedicate it to a girl with long blonde hair who is still in Nerea's heart, grabbing her and wanting to see her happy. And that as a child captivated me.
Poem
The seamstresses basted tides, sewed each furrow of foam,
they wove birds with scales, octopuses,
walrus tusks, unicorn horns,
they folded the waves.
Blood drops from their
fingers pricked by
the needle
fell into the water,
the sweat slipped on their cheeks and they were
shipwreck and tempest.
Paula Díaz Altozano (Canary Islands)