French Lace

France is an old European place I'll never get to. So, I'll only have to envision places where these old faded curtains might hang. They've been washed of course by some French and delicate, lean and healthy old European. She's smart like my mother or grandmother. Not a sophisticate, but a purist when it comes to her linens. She uses starch and a mild bleach to wash them, and they are slightly yellow but still white.

They hang stiff and would be pushed like a vertical blind, if the wind did not escape through the cuts of the knots of the fabric. Like my brothers life and his soul.  It would still be blown by the like of you that has so much life. He was blown about enough and is now in her hands like that lace. Imagine all the innocents in the world now in the hands of a wise old woman who would make sure only a gentle breeze would nudge through the window. That the sash would not have the storm blow through. Not today, not ever.