Mother was still weaving late into the night. It was a new pattern, rich with deep blues and purples, lined with a glistening gold. Her foot worked the machine rhythmically as the spindle slid over the wood and through the silks in soft arpeggios. On the other side of the one-room dirt house, the young boy in his bed near the window listened to the gentle humming of the loom as he watched the stars through sleepy eyes. The sky was big and clear. Under such a sky, there was no way to doubt that someday everything would be better.
Meanwhile, mother wove. Weaving was not a great source of money, but it was enough to get them through this difficult time. Father would not be gone forever. Before long, nights like this would be filled with laughter and stories of adventures, and everything would be better.
The boy’s thoughts were interrupted by the friendly chatter of a group from the wedding across town as they walked back to their houses, laughing and joking about the evening’s events. The quiet sounds of joviality seemed to lighten the room. There were still happy people everywhere. Soon mother and he would be among them.
As the chatter died down, however, the night once again grew deep and somber. The boy drifted off to sleep as mother continued weaving.