The weather turns off cold; my instincts go domestic. For days I smell of onion

and homemade pumpkin soup. A woman, everything

comes down to love.

Sewing for my child

I think how even thread Becomes a parent,

stitching up the woolen halves Of cloth into a whole.

Outside the rain is beating

a mat of yellow leaves; I don't believe

in endings.

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.