The holes in the fabric of the universe had always been there. I just had never noticed them before. It's easy not to notice something when not much troubles you. It's easy to have not much trouble you if you never pay attention. I never paid attention.
But when the crack in the glass came sharp and jagged, a rent in time, I looked up.
The trees were bare, the forest carpet leeched of life. The cityscape was curiously crooked. From my vantage point I could see the people, and they were bent. Practically broken. I shook my head, as if to wake up. But I was already awake. I was paying attention.
The patching process was slow. It's always slow when the universe's outfit needs mending. It would have been better if I had seen the holes as they came, taken them one at a time. But I was out of time. I used bone needle from my own store. I use my own bones; it's easier that way. Mine grow back quickly. It's the thread that's hard to gather — moonbeams spun in castor oil slip about something wicked. I didn't have enough. I used what I could. Then I started pinching the holes with my fingers. Next my toes. Then I was out of digits and the universe wasn't out of holes.
I worried then.
They say that worry is a fruitless endeavor. That somehow you can help yourself and keep worries at bay. I think this must not be true. Worry comes from paying attention, from knowing that something is broken. That doesn't seem fruitless to me; it's necessary. Seeing broken things and then trying to fix them — the worry is the part of your mind that makes up the solution. Best not to prolong it, though. Solutions ought to be implemented upon arrival. If they're good ones.
I think I had a good one. I used tar. It seemed to stick. It was good enough, anyways. Good enough if I kept paying attention. Worrying a little. Making thread.
As I made thread, I scraped off the tar and mended the holes until they were all gone. This went on for an age. I made more thread. I searched for holes. It took a lifetime of paying attention. I liked the trouble of it, in the end. It never felt bad to be useful.