Just a Thimble.

Just part of a sewing set or a tool for creating a masterpiece? Rosie would pull out the thimble whenever there was a more intricate part of her needlework to be accomplished, delicate and small. The tinier the piece then the more likely that the thimble would be drawn from the toolbox to protect her bony arthrytic finger from a sharp darning needle along with her reading glasses to avoid squinting too much more than necessary. Oh, if this thimble could talk of the works of art that it had witnessed being nurtured to maturity; stories and images being embroidered into stiff, starched white fabric. Its coat of armour guarded the construction of memories against a spill of ruinous scarlet blood; memories of art that were today being handed down to Rosie’s children. In the lawyer’s office, it was her youngest child’s turn. He was handed a box which he opened tentatively to discover the thimble. Why, he wondered? He unfolded the enclosed handwritten note.

“For you, my child, the most precious piece of all for without this thimble, I would have created nothing. May it provide you with the same protection even though I am no longer with you, love mum”