The crafts room in the Center for Active Living
is sun-bright. Ladies circle ’round the table
Opening tackle boxes of needles, thread spools,
Tubes of multicolored, multi-shaped beads.
Pulling stoppers, they spill out tiny
Sparkling piles onto foam squares.
A few skitter to the floor.
I squint to guide the bees-waxed thread
Through a needle eye and tie a strong knot.
We are making Zulu necklaces with Pam.
She is patient and positive, though her hip aches.
Soon she will miss classes to have it replaced
At the hospital in Raleigh. I am new, beadless.
Borrowing the glass carafe she calls “bead soup,”
I pour a glistening pile out onto an egg carton lid.
Beads of all shapes and sizes ooze forth like shimmery lava.
They are leftovers from teaching years of projects and classes.
I use a tiny pink spoon saved from Baskin Robbins
To scoop out ones that are canary yellow with orange highlights.
“Pick through and make sure they’re even-sized,”
She instructs. “Watch out for the ones that are
Whopper-jawed.” Whopper-jawed! Bead soup!
The new language fascinates me.
Heirloom! Guilloche [gee-oh-shay]! Filigree! Doublet!
We laugh, share news, ask about those absent;
Worry aloud about the one who won’t take her medicine.
Ladies vie for Pam’s attention as she teaches a new technique.
“Shhh, I can’t concentrate when everyone’s yappin,’”
One admonishes. “Scoot the scissors this way.”
I spear and count a dozen beads; send them flying down
The needle like a firehouse pole, stringing them
In a threaded circle ’round the base rope
Securing them with looping stitches.
Another dozen and I’m working my way outward
From a mother of pearl the size of a wedding almond, braced
With a bead-on-bead at center.
At the half-hour, some leave for pickleball in the gym;
Others, line dancing in the activity room. Pam mutes
The pumping CD music by shutting the crafts room door.
“Circle round and snug them up tight,” she says,
Talking lovingly as if the beads were children, called home to supper:
Chevron! Flambeau! Iolite! Superduo!
She says she’s already lassoed the doctor into giving her
Used plastic clamps. She can sterilize them
In the dishwasher to use in her craft.
Rondelle! Tigertail! Lavalier! Seed bead!
At class end, I squirrel my unfinished Zulu rope
Into a ziplock bag. “I’ll show you how to put
The endcaps on next time,” Pam says. I tell her
I don’t wear jewelry like the others. I want to lay it
Just as it is on the kitchen window sill, instead,
Where the beads can catch the afternoon light.
Cindy Brookshire 2017