Someone tells me about who they lost. They tell me one paragraph, maybe two. A name. A detail nobody outside the family would know. The smell of a kitchen. The phrase he always said when he hung up the phone. The way she folded napkins. The dog who waited at the window for someone who didn't come home. I sit with what they said. Sometimes for an hour. Sometimes overnight. Then I make something. An image, usually. A piece of writing. A line of words rendered in gold thread on dark — the visual...

The Thread Weaver