To Mina Wright Citron

Rebecca Lloyd

Behind every sawblade is a woman in grease stained blue jeans with headphones in shielding her ears from the orchestra of work. From the whirring pounding whining of the machines and instead surrounding her with the beauty and grace which comes from manicured hands dancing on the strings of a Stradivarius.

Providing for her family by laboring with love. Either that or raising the man who did. But back to the woman, since man is not the subject here. In fact, his story is told literally everywhere else, but not here, not on this sawblade. This sawblade is traced then sliced from gleaming sheet metal which reflects the stories colors backgrounds and emotions Of women. Of those who hammered them into existence.

Reflects me and my phone camera trying to capture art. Innocent eyes blissfully unaware that what I see as paint is her blood.

More than once, she nicks her finger on a sharpened blade and a ruby trail winds down past her knuckle wrapping itself around her ring – tethering her to her purpose and why she labors. Because she loves her own blood, and love protects and love perseveres.

That alone makes the scars worth it when her figure matches an old sawblade pockmarked by scratches from hard work.

After all, sawblades chop down trees to build houses that become homes to raise women in They are also occasionally used as murder weapons.

But let’s focus on how sawblades pay the water bill feed the family and educate the next generation of daughters.