I’ve threaded my needle again to try to bring my life together. Today I find it slipping through my heart several times, dropping anchor there and then casting about for a place to go next. It almost reached my daughter as I drove her to school; she sitting in the back seat looking out the window at the worn-out places she will only have to see for a few more years. The needle was nearing her coat when I asked what she would like for dinner. She closed her eyes for a moment and I could hear her words tighten as she told me she didn’t care. The needle reached the end of the doubled thread and strained, but could not reach her, so it slowly came back and double-tucked itself neatly into the back of my right hand. I was surprised and jerked the wheel, but she didn’t notice. I drove on but the startled needle made quick angry stitches, pulling tightly until my skin was as wrinkled and gathered as my mother’s. When the thread was used up it just dangled there, shiny and cold. As she was collecting her backpack and lunch and stepping out of the car, I twisted around and reached to touch her, but she was already miles away and my hand was sewn to my heart.