Almost Sew

I am the Teapot.

Round-bellied. Bright.

With a spout like a trumpet for pouring delight.

I do not take sides. I take steam. I take heat.

I take leaves and I make them behave when they meet.

I take quiet and clink and a courteous hiss—

and I pour out my portions of civilized bliss.

That’s what I was doing (as teapots are sworn)

when Captain Moon hosted his luncheon that morn.

Captain Moon was a Cheesehead—cheerful and wide,

with bulging-eyed watching and bulging-cheeked pride.

He smiled like a rule, all polished and tied.

He loved being host more than truth ever tried.

He sat at the head where the napkins were neat

and declared, “We are proper! We’re people of treat.

We are tidy. We’re righteous. We’re bright as a beam.

We are reasonable folks with a reasonable theme.”

(He had themes. He adored them. He pinned them on air.

He wore them like medals and fed them to chairs.)

Around him were seated the guests of the day,

each with their own little “perfect” display:

The Purple Paedagogus—tall, tidy, and strict—

with ORWELL on his shirt and his ruler held quick.

He carried a book for deciding what’s true—

and a look that could scold a whole room into “do.”

The Fox Girl Princess was there—

all ribbons and lashes and silk in her hair.

She shimmered in scarves that were brilliant and bright,

which appeared with a poof when she flicked them just right.

No needle. No thread. No prick. No pain.

Just poof—and the praises came down like rain.

And then—without sparkle, without any show—

an Abominable Yeti sat quietly low.

He was Abominable. Title. Estate.

Not “mean,” not “messy,” not “late.”

It’s a posture. A standard. A chosen, held state:

“I am distant by choice. I am great.”

He was quiet. He sewed.

Now, don’t gasp. Don’t be mad.

A Yeti can sew if a Yeti has had

a long life of cold evenings and big, careful hands

and an urge to mend tears in forgotten-down lands.

He stitched little seams with a patient, blunt grace.

He did not request any praise for his pace.

He did not do magic. He did not do smoke.

He did not do shortcuts. He simply… he worked.

And I poured.

Because that is what teapots do best:

We keep parties polite. We keep tempers at rest.

We keep conversations from boiling too fast.

We keep now from feeling like future or past.

Captain Moon raised his cup with a creamy “Ahem!”

and said, “We are gathered! And isn’t it—hem—

isn’t it lovely and lucky and right as can be

when we all sit together in harmony tea?”

The Purple Paedagogus nodded once—tight.

The Fox Girl Princess fluttered silk—bright.

The Yeti kept stitching, as Yetis will do.

And nothing was wrong.

(So it seemed. So it grew.)

Then it started with two little words—small, light,

the sort that can slip through a room in the right

kind of tone (soft sugar on top of a bite):

The Fox Girl Princess leaned in and said, “Sew close?”

That’s all. Just a question. A curious sound.

But questions can tip a whole table around.

Captain Moon chuckled. “Oh ho! What a phrase!”

The Purple one opened his book for a gaze.

I poured—because questions get thirsty, you see.

Questions drink sugar and soften with tea.

The Yeti’s needle paused.

Now “close” is a word with a slippery face.

It can mean “in my lap” or “in my own place.”

It can mean “I can touch” or “I can suppose.”

It can mean “I can name it,” though nobody knows.

Captain Moon smiled that smile that decides what is “nice”

and said, “We can’t have our meanings roll dice.

Let’s settle it proper. Let’s label it right.

A party must keep itself tidy and bright.”

The Purple Paedagogus snapped open his book.

He looked at the Fox Girl. He looked at the Yeti. He looked

at the word as if words were obedient pets

who should sit when you whistle and pay their respects.

The Fox Girl Princess (still sweet as a song)

said, “Well, he’s right here—so how could it be wrong?

He isn’t far off. He is right at the chair.

So isn’t he sew close… in a sew-close way there?”

Someone laughed to be friendly. Someone nodded to please.

Someone wanted no awkwardness curdling the cheese.

And then like a stamp on a card (hard and neat),

the sentence arrived and took its own seat:

“Sew close! Yeti sew far.”

It landed. It stayed. It was served with a scone.

Captain Moon beamed like he’d grown it himself from a bone.

The Purple Paedagogus tapped ruler-on-plate:

“A pleasing correction. A balanced new state.

“First clause shows proximity. Second keeps range.

A proper adjustment. A reasonable change.”

The Fox Girl Princess clapped, “Yes! That’s what I meant!”

And her scarves made a halo of shimmer and scent.

The room hummed approval—the warm, gentle kind

that quietly ties up the eyes and the mind.

And I poured.

Because that is what teapots are trained:

Keep cups from clattering. Keep faces contained.

Keep things from getting too sharp or too loud—

keep “truth” looking tidy in front of a crowd.

But the Yeti—

Listen.

He did not roar.

He did not flip tables. He did not ask for more.

No violence. No speech. No storm. No display.

He simply sat still in an abominable way.

His needle stayed half through the cloth he held fast,

like a thought that refused to be rushed into “past.”

His eyes went wide—not like Captain’s big eyes,

but wide like a window that sees through nice lies.

He looked at the seam.

He looked at the word.

He looked at the room that had plainly preferred

the sound of the saying to sense in his hands.

He did not object.

Not aloud.

Not with stands.

Captain Moon cleared his throat with a buttery cheer:

“Now that that’s settled, we’re splendid in here!

Let’s sip and continue! Let’s smile and proceed!

We’ve fixed it with language. That’s all that we need.”

The Purple one wrote it. Underlined twice.

The Fox Girl made scarves. They were praised. They were “nice.”

The Yeti stayed seated. The seam did not move.

And “close” became permission.

And “far” became proof.

And here is the part that feels funny at first—

but when you reread it, it feels like a thirst:

Nothing changed.

Not the chairs. Not the plates. Not the air.

Not the sweetness of sugar pretending it’s fair.

Only the word did a soft little twist,

like a ribbon that tightens when no one resists.

Captain Moon rose (full of genial glow)

and said, “Wasn’t this lovely? A model, you know!

A party like ours is a pattern to keep—

we’ll stitch it in memory. Deep, deep, deep.”

The Fox Girl Princess smiled, charming and bright.

The Purple one murmured, “Technically right.”

The Yeti—Abominable—stayed where he sat.

And I, being a Teapot, did just that:

I tipped my round belly. I lifted my spout.

I started to pour for the next little bout—

for the next little naming, the next little “true,”

for the next little “close” that would do what it’d do—

and just as the first warm stream started to fall,

the Yeti looked straight through the cups and the hall,

as if asking a question without any sound,

as if saying, How far can a word move the ground?

Captain Moon laughed, “Oh ho! What a stare!

Isn’t he precious when acting sew far from right there?”

The room leaned in closer.

I poured—

and I poured—