One of my old jobs required hours of sewing. At the end of the day piles of little threads littered my workspace, linear tangles. At the time I was newly grieving my mother and felt words couldn't express exactly what I was feeling but all the same I repeated the story of loss over and over to anyone who would listen. *edit* I was telling myself the story trying so very hard to untangle it and there on my desk was the perfect expression. The thread tells a story; the story, both important and unimportant, unique and universal, spins and winds tangled.