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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
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A Cup Full of Humble Fragrance #754629 added June 11, 2012 at 12:43pm
Restrictions: None
Stitches (Sew)
“It will be all right, Sammy. We’ll fix it up in no time,” Dr. Attwater said to the frantic eight-year old with a large gash on his arm. “You mustn’t move until I am done, okay?”
“Noo, noo,” the little boy screamed, attempting to jump off the table, but Miranda, the nurse, held on to him as the boy’s mother wriggled in her seat.
Attwater turned to her. “Mrs. Cummins, can you help us? Sammy needs his mommy here.” Then, he took the boy’s other arm gently and looked into his dark-blue eyes filled with tears and panic. “We'll sew it up. I’m just going to spray your arm so you won’t feel the stitches. Just a spray. Okay?"
Mrs. Cummins stepped to the other side of the table and patted the boy’s sweat-sodden blond hair. “I’m here. Don’t you worry!” she said, eyeing the nurse who was now taking a green bottle from another table by the wall.
“No, not that one, Miranda,” Attwater said. “Bring the Ethyl-Chloride. The brown bottle with the blue label.” Then he grasped the boy’s hand, as he sprayed the refrigerant on the wound. “Sammy, you know, your name reminds me of Samson. Do you know who Samson was?”
“I don’t care!” But the boy had stopped screaming now.
“Samson was the strongest, bravest man, and I’ll tell you a story, if you just keep still for a few minutes. Okay?”
Sammy nodded.
Attwater fit the tiny curved needle into the jaws of the needle holder, reminding himself that each suture had to be placed precisely the same distance apart from the cut edge..
“Once upon a time, there was a shoemaker who didn’t have enough leather to make a shoe. With what little material he had, he sewed a tiny pair of shoes and left them on his bench at night.”
Attwater tied the first knot not too tightly, until the edges were apposed, and he continued with the story.
“The next morning, he saw that the tiny shoes he had made were gone. In their place stood the most exquisite pair of shoes, sewn perfectly with even stitches. He sold that pair of shoes, but the money he made was only enough for food. So he just bought a pizza pie and went home.”
Attwater viewed his handiwork, after tying the last knot and cutting the thread close to the knot. Perfect! These were the most meticulous sutures of his life.
“Is that all?” Sammy asked, while Miranda applied the dressing and wiped off the moisture from the boy’s brow..
“Your stitches are done,” Attwater said. “Do you want to hear the rest of the story?”
“Yes,” Sammy nodded.
“The next morning, the shoemaker found two pairs of shoes. Then, the morning after that, a few more. Each morning the shoes multiplied. The shoemaker became a rich man, selling all those shoes. His wife said, “Let’s stay awake one night, and learn who's helping us.” So they hid themselves in a closet and waited.
“At midnight, two elves, carrying a bag of tools, climbed on the workbench. They tapped and stitched, and tapped and stitched, and made those perfect shoes.
“To thank the elves, the shoemaker and his wife baked cookies and bought tiny clothes. The next night, they hid again and watched the elves jump up and down with delight, enjoying the cookies and their new clothes. And they all lived happily ever after.
“Sammy, you have been very brave like Samson. On your next appointment, I’ll tell you another story, okay?”
Sammy nodded, smiling.
After Sammy and Mrs. Cummins left, Miranda said, “That wasn’t the whole story was it?”
Dr. Attwater grinned. “No, I couldn’t tell a little boy the elves didn’t show up, could I?”
Miranda laughed. “For sure, doctor, you’re nicer than the Grimm Brothers.”
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Prompt: Sew
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