I opened the gifts one by one,

knowing that the softness I felt

under the antique Santa Claus paper

was yet another bundle of fabric,

more clothes to add

to my ever-expansive wardrobe.

One by one, the patterns were revealed to me:

some plain black cotton,

a Paris print with a sparkly pink tower,

paper cutouts the size of my favorite dolls,

and at last, a sewing machine.

I remember a roomless memory,

my mother and I hovered over the machine,

the internet failing to teach us

how to maneuver the thread.

"We'll try again later," she said.

Now, I open the drawer under my bed,

remove a dust-covered box,

running my fingers along the top of it.

I remove the as-new machine,

my failed future.

I walk to my computer, switch taps

from a Buddhism study guide

to an empty Google Docs.

I wonder if I was a seamstress in a past life.

Did I watch my family create the cave paintings

while I sat in the corner, hide on my lap

with a splinter of bone in my hand,

feeling nothing but bliss?

Did I live in the Edwardian era,

tailoring a perfect three-piece suit,

a walking skirt, my daughter's chemise?

Did I ever pass my grandmother

in a secondhand store,

with my goal of finding a perfect neckline,

my favorite sleeves, a plaid pattern.

Did I find them among the stained and unloved,

did I make them into something beautiful?

Was this not a flashback, but a foreshadow?

Was this a hint at my next life?

Will I do the same with my daughter,

passing down the cotton and glittered tower,

hugging with triumph when the machine roars to life?

Will I be there at her first fashion show?

What if there is no past or future.

What if my soul is me, unchanging, stable.

What if I'm a butterfly,

every passing second another cocoon?

For I am a tree,

and these memories

are my branches.

My left arm holds the present,

the current reality. I fail to sew

even a button, but my dreams

reside content.

With my right arm,

I hold another present,

equally as real.

In this world, I made my doll a dress,

a bedspread with the leftover fabric.

In this world, I am not a poet,

and I don't often dream.

In this world, my floor is my stage,

this fabric is my home.

In this world, I know not of other realities.

In this world, I live buried in my ignorant bliss.