By A Thread

Two years ago at Easter time, I asked my husband to move out for the short list of reasons that women usually do. It just so happened that he moved out on Mother’s Day wouldn’t-you-know-it. Soon after, things devolved to such gothic depths that I actually used the banister to climb the stairs for the first time since moving into our house; my home. My world caving in, it was hard to fathom having anything left to be thankful for—woe was I.

Sure of exactly nothing-- except that this mindset probably wouldn’t serve me very well—I reached for my sewing kit and grabbed an unremarkable spool of navy blue thread; cut off a length, wrapped it once around my left wrist and tied it in a knot. I decided that whenever this thread on my wrist caught my eye, I would remind myself of all that I still had to be grateful for, grope as I might.

Weeks passed and together the thread and I grew grubby and thin. I gardened and showered; swam in oceans and pools; sweated, mourned and lost seventeen pounds. I wore bracelets, watches and eventually mittens, and always the thread was there; silently stalwart, beginning to pill, but hanging in there, just like me. I would notice it and nod, giving thanks to my good health and the health of my son; to my neighbors, fresh snowfall and it’s hand-off to spring.

A year passed and I began to wonder when the thread would break. I was glad to have it—my bad patch was still in full swing—but knew it was on borrowed time and couldn’t help imagining its demise. Would a stranger break it off or a guileless young child? Would it snag on some resonant holiday? Tangle at some somber location woven with innuendo? Apparently not.

Just yesterday, after two years of constant companionship, I broke the darn thing off myself-- by mistake-- while taking off a sweater before getting into the shower. There was no collective gasp from the peanut gallery and no timpani sounded but I realized it immediately and froze. Just me, looking dumbfounded and slightly amused at my naked wrist, wondering why now? So I climbed into the shower and gave it some thought.

A good, hot shower is one of life’s better loved segues. It’s a portal to the next phase; it can also save you from your last. More times than I could count in the last two years a shower had saved me from reaching out in the wrong direction; from dialing the wrong number; from pouring the wrong drink; from drowning. Get in the shower, I’d say to myself, you’ll feel better if you do, and I did. And for mothers, especially, a shower is a sacred stretch of time, an instant vacation, a respite; the shower stall transforms into a baptismal font; a think tank, a space pod, a gift.

So maybe it’s okay that I broke the thread off myself while heading into the shower before Mother’s Day. Perhaps it was fate; perhaps it was folly. I think it was exactly right.