I found it.
I found the tapestry that appeared the day before yesterday behind my closed eyes. It is red, it shimmers—and today, it is complete.
On Thursday, when I first saw it, I quivered at the verge of tears the entire day. It was so beautiful, and also contained so much of a story. And the tapestry wasn’t fully finished—it still radiated hope. And it turns out that I am most tender and vulnerable when I still have hope.
Today, it’s complete because every thread of the story has been wrapped up. The job, the baby, the marriage and the lover. The loose ends are tucked away, knotted up—and the whole piece has been sprayed down with a finishing lacquer. Rather than the raw, unfinished liquid light it had on Thursday, this metallic-y tapestry is now solid.
I won’t touch it for fear that I’ll know just how hard it is once it reaches my hands. I prefer to hold the paradox in my mind: that it’s softly rumpled like linen while glinting like knives.
I see it behind my closed eyes still, after separating my love for him from my love for me and letting him go. But it doesn’t elicit tears or tenderness anymore—only closure, certainty and acceptance. And reverence for how my hands and feet and mouth and heart fashioned it, a vehicle for God’s art.
Every design has a purpose.