This poem reflects on the quiet labor of
living with others—
the unseen care required to prevent
small hurts from becoming lasting wounds.
It moves from weariness to recognition,
and gently asks whether we might choose
to live by mending, rather than fleeing.
Mending the Frays
People are hurt by other people.
Even a slight twist of words
can wound us
with ease.
It is not that people are fragile.
Everyone is hurt.
So as not to be hurt,
so as not to hurt others,
we live by constantly measuring
the distance between us.
A small fray spreads quickly
and becomes a wound.
That is why, when fraying begins,
it must be mended at once—
or happiness cannot endure.
Attentiveness.
Consideration.
Watchful care.
Sensing such signs,
we prevent fraying before it begins.
What exhausting concern this is.
What a succession of futile efforts.
Is this what it means
to live in society?
When weariness deepens
and irritation takes hold,
we suddenly realize—
I, too, in this tangled web of the world,
am sustained
by the attentiveness,
the consideration,
the watchful care
of those with a heart.
If we must live
in an age bound to a time and space
from which there is no escape,
then at the very least,
I want to live
mending the frays of the heart,
together with you—
who hold hands of consolation,
who soothe, comfort, and tend—
as we stitch life back together.