Once upon a time, there was a pile of fabric.

It was not a pile that had been bought from a shop with a particular project in mind.

Nor was it a pile awaiting washing, or throwing out.

It was a pile of old fabrics, that had, over time, grown organically from bits left behind when projects were finished; pieces donated by well-wishers and friends; scrips of this and scraps of that.

The pile was not popular in the house where it resided. Most people felt, when they saw it, that it made the place look untidy.

They had, in the back of their minds, a vague thought that it should be put away, preferably somewhere out of sight.

But the pile knew better.

At night, when the house was quiet, the scrips and scraps whispered to one another. They murmured their prospects and possibilities. They speculated and hypothesised about what they might one day become.

The echoes of those whisperings and murmurings hung in the air, like dew in the dawn light. In the rush and bustle of the life of the house, they quickly wafted away, unnoticed and unheeded.

Until, one morning, when the sun shone and the house was quiet and the maker came in and sat alone.

All the accumulated whisperings and murmurings swirled about in the air like motes of dust – and slowly, finally, they began not to evaporate, but to settle.

The maker sipped her tea, glanced over at the pile, and went over to rummage.

Slowly the magic started to take hold; pieces were picked up, ideas were formed, and at last, she set to work.

The pile was scattered, no longer a pile at all really. But that was the way of things.

The way things should be. ♥