One more song would undo the knots.
Another verse would set them free.
Gently unraveling the finely woven cloak she wore.
Having stitched and restitched over time what hard truths, and even harder reconciling had ripped.
She’d grown skilled at a style of patchwork that blended in the pieces that didn’t belong, perfectly.
And now, all at once, they were coming undone.
By the voice of a man that seemed to recognize her work.
A man whose own patches didn’t blend in so well as hers, giving him away.
A tattered look about him that made it clear he no longer cared for mending.
Resigned to look the part exactly as life saw fit to bestow.
An honest portrayal that he’d set to music.
And as he sat and sang her stitching away, he unlocked the hemmed fringe of her wearied soul.
Then he wrapped it in a hum.
A baritone, vibratoed lulling that removed any armor she had left.