Twisting Cotton

Scissors and glue and cotton. Cotton and scissors and glue. In my girlish dreams, I would take a ball of cotton from Mama’s round jar, transparent and smooth. Lifting the lid just so, I’d swiftly grab the soft fiber, and scurry away into an alcove.

Pulling gently, just a wisp of the cotton would emerge, and I‘d twist it through my fingers, fashioning an uneven thread. When one ball would dwindle, another was found, joined to the previous one by more twisting. The glue in the chest under the bed was gently rubbed up and down the length of the imperfect thread, and it was laid over my slender bladed pair of scissors to dry at random intervals.

I found a simple joy and peace in the pattern of unfurling, then twisting. ‘Someday, you’ll have enough thread to dye and make a rug.’ I‘d say softly. The idea of the rug wasn’t finite and concrete, in those early days of belief in anything being possible. The belief in the power of scissors, glue and those balls of cotton were enough to chase away any doubts.

As the weeks and then months flew by, my thread began to accumulate, and I wound it on empty thread spools. Watching the spools of thread grow ever more numerous was my special secret.

One morning, as I tucked away spool #18, my father burst into my room ranting and raving.

“So! You’re the one who has stolen your Mother’s cotton balls? Don’t you know that they’re not free? What is your mind thinking? Answer me!”

I tried to hide the spool underneath my neatly folded blouses, numb and fervently hoping that he’d turn on his heels and leave in a huff.

Even as my eyes closed, my fingers trembling from panic: I heard his steps, felt my hand being pried open and anticipated the slap that was sure to come.

It didn’t. As I stood ramrod straight, I heard the slide of a drawer, the thud of an object striking the carpet and a ripping of something unidentifiable.

Eyes snapping open, I saw him ripping my precious thread from one spool and then another. Tears did not come. My heart continued to beat in time to the ‘rip-rip-rip’ of my magnum opus being mangled.

I don’t remember the rest of that afternoon, but what I do remember is this:

As the sun set on that day, I groped around on the carpet trying to piece together the source of my joy. Just under the carved ridge of my dresser, I found a single spool of untouched thread. My crooked smile spread wider and I began to laugh. And, to hope.

I slipped that precious spool into the pocket of my dress. I would begin anew.

Decades passed, and I moved far away from my childhood home. While pulling open the lid of a repurposed chest, on the hunt for an unfinished cross-stitch in a hoop, I reached in....and pulled out my spool.

At 37, I’m ready to begin anew with cotton, glue and scissors. In the course of yet another move, the last spool disappeared. This did not bother me, because I knew that I had the power to reclaim my joy. No one would tell me again that ’twisting cotton’ was something shameful.

Freely purchasing bags of cosmetic cotton balls as an adult, the same soft orbs that I was berated over at the age of nine, was my sole bright spot in the midst of a tulmultous year. As I made my way over to the checkout lane, piling numerous bags of raw materials for my future rug, the cashier took a sidelong glance at me.

“You must go through these like candy, huh?” she said with a wry expression.

“Something like that.”

“Well, at least we never run out of them.”

“Yeah, that’s true.”

I noticed a pair of scissors, orange handles with long and slender blades on display next to the gum and candy bars. Impulsively, I reached out for them and decided to buy them too. I’d need them again, just like before.