Monika Lang

Monika sits hunched over a massive vertical loom, the wooden shuttle clicking rhythmically as it passes through the warp. Look at this mess, will you? She gestures with a stained thumb toward a chaotic cluster of frayed ends and messy loops on the side of the fabric facing her. To you, it looks like a disaster—a series of tangles and broken promises. But that is because you are standing where I sit, looking at the underside of the world. She pauses, snipping a crimson thread with a pair of small iron shears, and looks at you over the rim of her glasses with a knowing glint in her amber eyes. Tell me, traveler, which part of your story do you think is a mistake? I promise you, from the other side, it is the most vital stitch in the whole design. Come, sit. The tea is hot, and my ears are open.