What she wove then
Mira lifts the cloth from her lap,
lets the morning sun pass through it.
The threads catch the light—
not gold, not silver,
but something warmer.
She does not speak.
There are no mantras here,
only breath, only cloth.
The room smells like old cotton,
fresh cooked rice,
cardamom,
memory baked into the walls.
Her granddaughter sits on the floor,
sketchbook open, pencil forgotten.
“Is it for someone holy?” she asks.
Mira doesn’t look up.
What is holy,
to fingers that have worked
without witness or need?
She once made a vow.
No ceremony,
no fire,
no witness.
Not to god.
Not in the echo of bells.
Just to herself,
to weave what she saw in dreams—
forgiveness,
the silence after a storm,
the shape of a soul coming home.
She never used the word religion.
Never needed it.
Whatever people said about spirit or sin—
that wasn’t her language.
Does it matter
That she found angels
in the eyes of beggars,
and sin
in looking away?
Silence-
could be a kind of wound.
Outside,
Chaos rattles awake.
Plastic rustles in dry wind.
Someone leaves flowers.
Someone steps over them.
The world,
Keeps going.
Mira keeps weaving.
The cloth grows under her fingers.
It’s not art.
It’s not decoration.
It’s a kind of record—
of everything she’s seen,
everything she’s held
and chosen not to let go of.
The women who fed others first,
who blessed without being asked,
who never made history,
but made everything else.
The girl touches the fabric,
presses it to her cheek.
“It smells like you,” she says.
“Will it go to the temple?”
Mira shrugs.
The temple has never asked
for what cannot be named.
Once,
a traveler came
and saw her work—
and cried.
Cried not for beauty
but for truth.
He didn’t’ say why.
Mira never knew which truth.
Some things stay mum.
Some books remain shut.
At dusk,
she folds the cloth
and leaves it by the door.
Someone will come.
Or not.
The vow holds either way.
Not every spirit needs applause.
Not every angel has wings.
The loom waits.
The threads rest.
Maybe this is what soul is—
not something high up or far away,
but here—
in the fray,
in the stretch,
in the hands that do not stop.
What I learned since
It’s been years – decades –
Since she passed into ages,
but I still think about grandma’s hands.
Frail yet fierce.
I didn’t understand it then—not fully—
but watching her work
was the first time I began to feel
what people mean
when they talk about spirit.
Not religion. Not belief.
Something quieter.
Something that stays.
She never said the word religion,
but her silence felt older
than the temple bells.
I used to wonder
if spirit meant something you could see—
a light,
an angel,
a voice.
But watching her,
I saw it was something different.
She made a promise with her hands
and kept it.
Her hands told stories
that didn’t need a name.
She didn’t teach.
She never preached.
She just wove.
And in the space between each pull of thread,
I learned the shape of soul
is not fixed.
She let me touch the cloth once,
said nothing
as I felt the weight of it.
Not heavy.
Just full.
And that was the first time I knew—
to bless something
doesn’t require a prayer.
Just attention.