Silk

Threads of congealed worm spit. Mmmmm. Silk definitely sounds better.
I can see the scenario, way back in ancient China,

»So we've got this stuff, it's like thread, and you can weave it into cloth that feels great against your skin. It's lightweight, but very warm. It's like nothing else, really.«

»So what do you call it?«

»Congealed worm spit.«

»Uh-huh. We'll let the boys in marketing work on the name. Sign here.«

That silk, the strongest substance – stronger than platinum on a per-thread basis – can be so soft, such a sensuous fiber, is astounding. The feel of silk on my neck feels luxurioius, not nearly as confining as the platinum of a watch on my wirst. Yet silk, for all its strength, breaks down, as do all organic substances, and disintegrates with time. And so silk mirrors human relationships more than it does physical relationships, as platinum would.

In the attic there is a cedar chest. Carefully folded away inside is my mother's silk wedding dress.

Once I thought that I would wear that dress. Then the war came and George died.

My brother's wife didn't want to wear the dress, of course. My younger sister, Rachel, ran off to Elk Green one night.

I don't know that my great-niece will ever marry. If she does, she will probably want a dress of her own. That seems to be the custom these days.

I still keep the dress carefully folded away. I still live in the house where I was born.

The corn's hair was more like rubber really, in feel, more like grass, really in smell; for silken feel I much preferred the pussy willow – yes, even more than the material, silk, itself.

For my money, the Silk Road is the most fascinating place on earth. People speaking languages no one has heard of, playing musical instruments designed by Bizarro, social customs undreamt of, and still they are the most hospitable people on earth.

Very few people know that silk is made by boiling silkworms alive in their coccoons. The hot water loosens the coccons from around the larvae, allowing the silky fibres to be separated from the tiny little corpses and woven into fabric. Silk is made of death.