I wore a lace kerchief kneeling with my great-grandmother in church.
Holding it, putting it neatly over my hair, and sneaking a peek in the mirror,
I always felt magic and a kinship with her and her far-away first home in Mexico.

A doily was atop the bookcase of my Polish grandmother, ivory and intricate.
Sliding my hand over its rich textures, I marveled at the elegance it brought.
A stark, silent house held a corner of wonder with dainty sewing and wisdom in books.

Both women left for a new country when no home was left for them.
Their lace was for home, no longer for bridal dresses, dance gowns, or tea parties. 
Lacing their lives anew, they were intricate and delicate. They were made of the strongest silk.