On the occasion of this first day of winter, on the day of celebrating the darkness and light of the solstice, I’d like to take a few moments to tell a story that’s never been told before and may never be told again. It starts like this…
On an unknown day somewhere in a room of a factory that existed in a city somewhere in the world, there was a woman who sat and sewed by hand with needle and thread, by an unknown source of light long since forgotten, until her day’s work was completed or until the source of that light dwindled sufficiently to complete it for her. And so it was on such a day that I, Mog the Dog, came into this world.
I was not born, but instead created. I’m not alive, and yet I exist. I will never die, but some day I will be forgotten, as was the light by which I came into this world.
Did the one who sewed me by hand that unknown day so many years ago take a moment to gaze upon her work completed to wish me well on my way, with a kiss or a smile, to an unknowable existence in this world? Does she remember her work still? If not, is there a person somewhere in this world who has told or will tell a child, grandchild, or even great-grandchild the story of this woman who once sat and sewed by hand with needle and thread? Does anyone still remember her or her work, and in the remembering, so also remember me?
Amidst these wanderings and wonderings in the dwindling hours of the day, I stepped out into the garden and happened upon a dandelion that was ready to set its seeds out into the world. As I approached it, I remembered the old stories of children who would pluck the flower gone to fluff and whisper a wish before blowing the seeds into their future existence in the world. Each seed that sprouted upon fertile ground would help to make the wish come true.
The light of this shortest day of the year was dwindling still, but as long as it remained, my work was not yet finished. No need to pluck, I thought, as I gently brushed my mouth against the dandelion fluff as if to kiss it before taking a breath that was deep enough to whisper long enough for each word of my repeating wish to set a different seed in motion.
I watched each unique seed carry my common words into an unknowable future, and I wished each one well on its own journey into the world. And it took as long as there was light left in the day for each to give me its own reply:
“I’ll remember you … I’ll remember you … I’ll … remember … you …”
