She pulled out the drawer, allowing the sweet aroma of the dust pins to reach her nose. The metal, the dried glue, the clay, the lamination, ink, paper, all sorts of pins stuffed into the top drawer of her dresser, towering almost six feet in height, including the mirror, of course.
Tabitha, for that was her name, needed a stool to reach her beloved pins, which added that little extra flair to her outfits each day. Sometimes they were pinned to her favorite army jacket, other times on her jeans, sometimes on sweaters, shirts, sometimes even snow pants, those pins of course, had to be winter themed. When the pins could no longer fit in the drawer, Tabitha took her favorite ones out and lovingly attached them to her rucksack, sewing them on from the inside so that they wouldn’t be doomed to fall off.
She had made the rucksack, along with most of her blankets and quilts, certain t-shirts and skirts. She loved creating patchwork jeans and bags, threading together old rugs was her favorite; and since her vast, high-ceilinged apartment had become so mismatched, it all looked perfect. Pot holders, tea cozies, napkins, and place-mats, none matching but all looking perfect with her Fiestaware and le Creuset pots and pans. Her utensils had clay handles which she had crafted onto them, none of the glazed handles matching another.
She loved taking the broken bits and putting them together, forming something new and unique, never to be made again. Pins hold things together, they can be the decorative bridges between two pieces of fabric, though generally, they aren’t. Generally, they are put onto one article of clothing and are isolated for however long they stay pinned there. Tabitha hated that, and always had her pins at least attaching the collar to the body of her jacket, keeping a pocket closed, or pinning the edges of fabric together.
Nobody else in her college did this, but Tabitha preferred to be this way, unique; like her rugs, clothes, blankets, pots, pans, utensils, plates, and everything else she owned. Though she stood out, Tabitha liked to think of herself as a patchwork doll, in a patchwork home, making patchwork things, everything held together by the pins in the top drawer of her dresser, waiting patiently to be worn proudly someday soon.

Moira Barbier, Age 13, Grade 8, MS 51 William Alexander, Silver Key

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