By the time he told me the story it was twenty years deep in hyperbole.
I didn’t know what parts were true or where the spool began but I didn’t mind.
Stood back, watched the sum of it unroll and pool on the ground.
He breathed it as a prayer. He stumbled a little, held tight his brown paper bag. His eyes full tears.
“Your family. It it is picture perfect”.
I grasped at the string, looking for a way to knit it into a blanket, wrap him in it.
Weave a magic carpet to take him back in time.
I held my own spindle tight, wishing the pointed end hadn’t found a way to prick him.