Some sleeves now have patches. Knees of favorite jeans, white with time, are whole again. When my being is worn thin as a turnstile token used once too often, when ego and reality undo my sense of purpose and peace, I apply a little patch. Stopping the clock and the idiocy it represents, I patch. Real laughter; a fat kitty lying next to me; great food; earned garden grime; silence; music. Patches. Good, useful things.
Kathy Powers
