With Thermos filled at the water fountain and foam plugs in her ears, Sara walks into the weave room where one hundred and sixty looms boom yarn into fabric. And the commotion of noise, frantic and loud and rhythmic, buries and unfolds blurs of life.
“WELL, HELLO THERE, BABY DOLL! SWEETHEART, LOVE!
GORGEOUS BLOSSOM OF THE NILE!”
A voice thunders among the din and disentangles her from her meanderings.
She can’t help but smile.
Anyone could call me a blossom of the north-flowing Nile, anytime.LIKE A BLUE THREAD