A Red Thread, Woven Tight, with a White One Twined Just Right

 "Shhh.. children be quiet! I hear footsteps. She must be   coming," whispered the green thread.

 A commotion erupted inside the old aluminum cookie tin.   Spools, needles, embroidery floss, thimbles, and pins   quickly abandoned their chit-chat and rushed back to   their  places.

"Mark my words! The day will come when we'll get   caught," murmured the blue thread as it tried to settle   beside the light blue one. "We won't make it in time, and   Grandma Hermione will find us in a mess. And then, she'll   figure everything out!"

"She won't figure out a thing," the orange thread replied.   "People could never imagine what we do inside our box.   Even when they find us all tangled up, they will think they   did it themselves. I'm telling you, it will never even cross   their minds!"

The red thread, sitting nearby, just couldn't get   comfortable. It found no peace anywhere. One moment it   would unravel from its spool only to carefully wind itself back up, the next it would smooth out its tip to keep it neat. And all the while, it kept sneaking glances at its friend, the white thread, sitting across from it, carefree and watching the conversation unfold. How could she be so calm? The red thread was practically losing its mind with worry.

The yellow thread, who loved giving speeches, seized the opportunity. It stood up so everyone could see it, cleared its throat twice, and began: "We have gathered here today... well, actually, no... Today is a big day, um... I mean night. We all know that. So, I think this is the perfect moment to inform the new residents of our thread colony, the fresh additions to our group, the dear new members who have been beautifying our small society since yesterday..."

"Get to the point already!" interrupted the brown thread, who had no patience for long-winded talk.
"Oh! Sorry! I got carried away! You're right," the yellow thread apologized before continuing. "Every year, on this very night—the last night of February—the white and red threads have their special moment. Any minute now, Grandma Hermione will come to take them to make red-and-white bracelets for her grandchildren. And tomorrow morning, before heading to school, the kids will stop by here first. They'll give her a big, smacking kiss on the cheek, and Grandma will tie the 'Martis' bracelet around their wrists to protect them from the strong March sun."

"She tells it so well!" the orange thread whispered, nudging the thimble sitting beside it.

"And then?" asked the lime green thread eagerly.

"Then, the children will wear the Martis bracelets until the end of the month. After that, they'll leave them on a tree so the swallows can take them and use them to build their nests."

"In some places, people wear the Martis until Easter and then burn it with the Holy Fire," added the purple thread.

"Yes, yes! Elsewhere, they burn it in the bonfires used to burn Judas," chimed in the gray thread.

 A lively discussion about spring and its customs started.   The threads talked about Chelidonismata—the traditional   songs children sing to welcome nature's awakening. They   remembered Koudounismata—the rituals where people   would ring bells to wake the snakes from hibernation and   chase them away from the farmers' fields. The stories   seemed endless.

 The pink thread, who was new to the group, listened   quietly. Then, suddenly, she raised her hand.

 "I have a question! Why is the Martis bracelet made only   from red and white thread?"

 "Allow me to answer that," said the white thread,   motioning for the red thread to come closer. "Every color   symbolizes something. Red represents joy, and white   stands for purity. Long ago, people believed that when   these two colors are combined, they ward off evil and..."

She didn't get to finish her sentence. The creaking of the wicker chair was heard. Grandma Hermione had sat down and was putting on her glasses. She took the old aluminum cookie tin onto her lap and opened it. The threads were neatly arranged side by side, just as they had been the last time she saw them—except for two. Those two stood proudly in the center, hand in hand, waiting to be chosen.

Grandma took the threads and twisted them together. She had once watched her own grandmother do the same. And now, she was doing it for her own grandchildren.

 

Happy March, children!

Evi Nikolaidou