The ghost of the past, in leaving, had handed me the key to the archive of memories, buried more or less deliberately in consciousness. Although I will only narrate here what pertains to embroidery, writing had brought out moods of a personal nature. I had retraced those years when the three little ones unwrapped presents with sparkling eyes, but when I had too much fatigue on me to breathe in the moments: distracted by a mission that later proved unsuccessful. If you are not connected, Christmas turns into a heavy hassle.

At the stroke of 1 a.m., while still staring at the ceiling lost in similar thoughts, I found myself bathed in reddish light and headed for the room beyond, which I was not surprised to find transformed into a shimmering forest of glowing berries, for I had reread the original story. The ghost of the present, in his dark green robe adorned with white fur, stood quietly waiting for me, ready to depart.

Let’s go! I said meekly and resignedly, with none of the rough boldness of the days before.

I found myself simultaneously in a thousand homes, scattered all over the world. Here it was summer, there winter. I floated above the heads of many women, and a few men, all intent on handling threads and cloth. Little girls, girls, mature women and very old ladies. Christmas was many months away, but they were all intent on embroidering something for this absurd occasion. I could read their minds, retrace the tangle of their thoughts. Perceive on my skin their emotions. I was shot through with discharges of vanity, hope, joy and gratitude, amorous yearning, deep sorrow, resignation, stillness and wisdom.
It all came, with extreme vividness and violence. Paralyzing me.

Some, especially the younger ones, embroidered to show off their skills, or to make it known to the recipients that for long hours they had been thinking about them. Others embroidered gifts that they did not know if they would really have the courage to give, hatching the hope of coming out of their shells. There were expectant mothers, cradling the dream and dread of the happy event, weary mothers taming shaken nerves, aunts and grandmothers in high spirits, grateful friends. There were also women, generally more mature, scarred by events and illness, bereavement and abandonment. There were also those who were forced to do it for work, for hours on end, for nothing. Or women of any age who secretly rejoiced in happy moments. Each had found refuge in that corner of the house, bent over the fibers their country had at its disposal. Heavy and colorful wool or cotton yarns, raffia, very thin and delicate silk threads. Their bodies were there, but their minds were where I was, although only I had the knowledge, gifted to me by the spirit. The younger ones were receiving advice and consolation from the older ones, but above all, each was being recognized by the other for her own worth and each was a mirror of the other, as the bearer of shared feelings.
Some of them were embroidering my designs.
My heart sank and I woke up in my bed.