Scraps of Fabric

This is a novel about being lost.

As we row forward into the current, we are always looking backwards at what we have left behind. The thread of our history reels out from the back of the boat and trails in our wake. Fixed in the line like beads, or tied to it like tiny flags, are the places and people and moments of our life, briefly catching the light and then dipping beneath the waves as we pull ahead.

I hesitated before agreeing to write this story. I said I did not know where to start, but Julia said that I could start anywhere, because everything is connected. I said I had only been at the periphery of things, but Julia said that from the periphery I would have had the clearest view. I said that I would struggle to piece together the complete story from the fragments that I could remember, but she said I must try, for her sake, because our stories were patchworks that shared some of the same squares. She said that without this, another piece of her would be missing. She was putting herself back together, and she needed all the pieces. Otherwise, how would she know who to be? So I tried to remember. I was putting myself back together, as well. Sometimes, scraps of fabric blowing in the wind settle for a moment into a pattern in which we think we can see a face, a map, a story. Sometimes that is all we have to go on, and we have to do the best we can.