Every family has their own language of Love. At the Evans household, one of the threads in Love’s language was fabric. weird, eh?
But Mom started art school in fashion design. Dad was a color chemist in a carpet factory. We loved fabric. The house was filled with beautiful color. Mom sewed. (Deb and I were less capable! and disciplined… although i have ideas, I have usually fairly haphazard executions!)
But oh, we’re admirers of a well-cut anything. Or a beautiful pattern. Or a fabric that falls just so.
So when I saw those beautiful dresses, so well suited to those beautiful young women, all I could think was where are they? So often if I had a wedding in Bloomsburg, I went home to Deb’s house. This must be the first wedding I’ve had since there was no Deb’s house.
And we would have sat and I could have told all my fabric stories and then shown her pics later. But that was yesterday. And here I am, fluent in a language that is now more or less extinct. It’s sort of a weird thing… It’s a scramble to figure out Peace when no one speaks your language of Love. Adaptation… ah, it’s a slow segue… and Peace is sometimes a dance with memories.