PATTERN

In my dream, I have been sleeping in a comfortable
little bungalow, away from home. It is not far from my
own home, about twenty minutes walk. I walk home and find
my mother in a small house, a cosy room. As if I and my
mother lived alone together. Actually in my life, we were
seldom alone together, there was an enormous family, visiting
relatives and friends. My mother is actually my mother.
This is more miraculous than any divine manifestation.
I am troubled because I have left my little travelling
clock in this bungalow where I had been sleeping. I will
go back for it, my mother says, "no, you are not to go
back."

Now, my mother is showing me a piece of tapestry.
embroidery. It is apparently my own. I am not satisfied
with it, but "see," she says, "the pattern is not broken."
I am sure the stitching is slip-shod and badly done but she
says, "no, look, there is the one line running through it
all." There is a somewhat vague tapestry edge to the centre
picture. I do not see the picture. We are concerned with
the border. It is a wave pattern, the curves meet and run
along symmetrically the whole length. Then the wave pattern

2.

seems to dissolve or resolve into fleur-de-lys. The last
two flower-heads in their separate sections are done most
carefully; they are clearer and firmer than the rest and
beautifully finished. "Look," my mother says, "the pattern
runs right to the end," as if she wanted to assure me that
the pattern of my life was right, that the thread would
not be cut abruptly, that I was weaving toward an estab-
lished end.

My mother is satisfied, pleased with my work and now
I find by some miracle, the little clock has come back, it
is there, ticking away.