06/05/2025
WOOVEN LEGACY
As a child, I watched my father’s hands work wonders—bending, weaving, shaping simple strands into strong, beautiful baskets. Each one was a work of art, carrying more than just weight—it carried history, care, and quiet pride. My eldest sister inherited his skill effortlessly, her fingers dancing in the same rhythm as his. She filled our home with baskets that held more than items; they held memories.
I used to feel a quiet jealousy, and upset whenever i see her making it under the palmtree while we were having our family gist. Why didn’t I get that gift? Why didn’t my hands know how to weave like theirs?
But life has its own way of revealing purpose. Today, I find myself weaving too—not with straw or cane, but with fabric and thread. My hands, once uncertain, now create basket patterns worn in elegance and pride. I do not fill homes—I dress bodies in stories. I weave heritage into fashion.
It turns out, I inherited the gift after all—just in a different form. The legacy lives on, not in the way I expected, but in a way that is entirely my own.
