The skirt takes on its own life and becomes more than the sum of its parts.
I begin thinking as I'm plaiting and my mind considers the origin of skirt, the first cord tied around the small girl's middle.
The construction of such a strand. Perhaps a thread from her mother's skirt, something she reached for, something her mother dreamed for her.
And then one day her first strand. Plaited with her own hands and placed where her own desire places it.
I think also to my own skirt. This one is a fiction and I'm enjoying very much the construction and the  perhaps of it but my own skirt with my own history and I think to make that garment after this one.

Now that thought weaves with this one and skirt becomes memory.
I begin to consider my history, my memory and what it would feel like to wear that sweeping my ankles.