Commuters are creatures of habit, it seems. We all tend to take the same train home at night (mine’s the 5:16, which we call “the 16” for short) and sit in the same car, same seat even.
There’s a woman who sits across the way from me, and I don’t know her name, but I’ve watched her finish one cross-stitch sampler after another.
Tonight I’m going to introduce myself and give her a copy of the July/August 2003 issue of Angels on Earth, where we ran this poem by E. Field. It’s called “The Stitcher’s Prayer”:
I pray that risen from the dead,
I may in glory stand,
A crown perhaps upon my head,
But a needle in my hand.
I’ve never learned to sing or play,
So let no harp be mine –
From birth until my dying day
Plain sewing’s been my line.
Therefore, accustomed to the end
To plying useful stitches,
I’ll be content if asked to mend
The little angels’ britches.
