The Faded Dust

added blog Literature

2026-08-23 00:24:40 -

The Faded Dust

The wool is red. It was always red. My mother spun it. She sat by the fire. The spindle turned. Click. Click. Click. I watched her hands. They moved like water. Like smoke. I was seven. She was young. She hummed a tune. I do not know the name. It was a low song. A sad song. She gave me the shawl. It was warm. It smelled of lanolin. It smelled of smoke. It smelled of her. I wore it to school....

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