Her endless skirt swirled in silvery tides and currents. Far below, at her immense hems, they sat, swarming and intent, like worker bees or ants. Stitching, embroidering. Each brought a precious bead, a tattered thread, something to work painstakingly into the fabric of her.

Some came empty-handed, and sat wretchedly watching, waiting for their turn. Others sat patiently with their gifts, waiting to find the place where they too might weave, weave, weave into the glittering, glowing cloth.

Scruples varied, of course. You might hear a scuffle and cry as one person jostled another out of the way. Sometimes there was bloodshed. One man might tenderly work his little edge for years, only to have it ripped away and replaced by the next man’s offering. Many walked away, hands empty, shirts torn, their places immediately filled by the endless stream of new pilgrims.

She never said a word, although they heard many. As they endlessly wove the story of her; she breathed each life, making them in return.