The strands of thread on a wooden spool are humble. Barely wide enough to see without your glasses on in a dimly lit room. Yet in a succession of thousands, even tens of thousands all lined up like corn rows, they make fabric, which in turn transforms to what you have on now. Or a quilt.

There are a jungle parrot's worth of colors in my sewing room. Twelve shades of green, eight reds, sky blue, navy blue, cornflower blue, aqua. They wait their turn to be selected for the task of piecing blocks, or mending a skirt. Then they outperform glue, or tape, staples, or nails for marrying two pieces together for all time. I have a quilt from the Civil War era, and her threads are still silently on duty. Which is more than I can say for the troops. 

This morning over the rush of packing lunches and downing eggs, the twins and John and I exchanged our intentions for the day. 

"We have a volleyball game. It's home. No history class, but in costuming we will start on the play."

"In preschool we will pick apples and make little tarts."

"I have a meeting, and want to finish up a video I'm working on."

Small time aspirations. No bigger than a hand pie. No more significant than a spike, or a conversation among coworkers. 

Yet lined up in days and weeks and years, they clothe us. Warm us. Shield us from the shiver of being disconnected. 

Like a single thread, easily snapped or lost on the carpet.