Journey
By Robin Jeffrey
Cecilia’s foot tapped in time with the sway of the small vessel. Down in the hold, where, if she listened closely enough, she could hear the beat of the waves against the planks, she worked. Her needle slipped through the thick cloth of her pet project.
Tap, tap
Slosh, slosh
Swish, swish
Thread slithered through the cloth, stitching time, saving nine. It was gold, the color of ripe wheat, and in the quiet monotony of the late night, with the light from the oil lamp blurring its shape, she fancied it the tail of a comet.
Tap, tap
Slosh, slosh
Swish, swish
In her hypnotic state, Cecilia misjudged the speed of her needle, pricking her finger on the tiny point. She gasped, and the involuntary intake of breath shook her from her reverie. As she sucked at her wounded digit, the coppery taste of blood on the tip of her tongue, she realized how tired she was.
But she was so close to finishing it.
A sigh escaped her lips as she she looked down at her sewing. She frowned. Her distraction had cost her more than a hurt finger; there was a whole line of stitches out of place. Squaring her shoulders and firming, her lips, Cecilia picked up the needle from her lap and began retracing her steps.
Tap, tap
Slosh, slosh
Swish, swish
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