The Web of Self-Defense

Momma taught me weaving.

Weft. Warp. Take-up. Let-off.

Color. Texture.

Figuring men don’t much like the female world, we made us a place in the barn loft, where menfolk only went at Christmas to retrieve the plastic tree.

But Uncle Toby, Boxman and Coxum – upriver twins, and Father Axend kept sniffing around me and Momma, finding excuses to come upstairs to put their grimy hands on us.

Enough.

We wove a web.

Come for a jigger of whiskey. Sit here. Scooch left. Perfect.

Each time Momma opened the trap door and a man was let-off, she and I clinked jiggers.