tuck in my head like an alarm on snooze — why did she latch?
She sat there for weeks. Free rent.
And the longer she stayed, the louder she got.
Not loud in the way people talk.
Loud in the way someone moves. Never still. Never settled.
She gets agitated doing nothing.
Hands always busy. Always halfway through something.
Sewing. Knitting.
Crochet one week, painting the next.
Now pottery — because why not.
If she can’t do it, she doesn’t buy the tool.
She learns.
She’s not filling time.
She’s using it.
Later in life and somehow moving faster than everyone else.
In and out of grandparenthood when it suits her.
No fuss about it.
She’s been around for years, really.
Bits of her in different women.
But something pulled them together.
Gave her a bit more edge.
A bit more bite.
Where denim replaces frump.
Where skill meets tattoos.
Where energy comes back round again instead of fading out.
And that’s when she settled.
Crafty Vixen.
She climbed out of my head, paid her bill,
and made herself comfortable on the page.