The Flow of Hmong Embroidery
Yihan Meng
Time flows silently like a river, and the passage of years gradually carved marks of age onto the embroiderer’s face, with each wrinkle seemingly narrating a story from the past. Finally, one peaceful evening, she completed the final stitch on me. Smiling, she gently held me in her hands, dusting me off as if handling the most precious treasure.
In the mirror, I saw the dazzling craftsmanship. If I were not the one adorned with the embroidery, I would have thought the beauty before my eyes was an illusion, so unreal in its magnificence.
However, not long after, she passed me on to a younger woman, likely her daughter, who also possessed dexterous hands and enjoyed singing the same ancient songs.
Over the years, the mother and daughter would sit together, embroidering while singing, as if engaging in a special dialogue that conveyed their emotions and skills. The young woman inherited her mother’s beautiful voice, and whenever she sang, the ancient ballad flowed like a clear stream, pure and enduring.
Although she had never worn me herself, she would often dust me off gently or tidy the corners of my folded garment. While doing so, she would speak with anticipation about how, when her own daughter grew up, she would dress her in me to dazzle everyone at the Sisters Festival.
Each time she spoke of this, I was moved by the uncontainable joy in her voice and found myself unconsciously looking forward to that day as well.
I spent countless days and nights in the cupboard, gradually understanding that the reason the embroiderer created me was to prepare a special gift for her granddaughter’s one-month celebration. Perhaps the blessings and hopes passed down through the family generations are precisely what the thousands of threads on my body represent.
The destined day finally arrived. She carefully took me out of the room and gently dressed me on a vibrant young girl whose eyes sparkled with curiosity and shyness. Together, we stepped into the drum field, accompanied by the ancestral drums and the gentle rustling of silver pieces, gradually losing ourselves in the joyful dance.
In that moment, I felt the blossoming of life, as radiant as the flowers blooming in early spring. The butterfly spread its wings and soared, while dragons and phoenixes circled and flew high in the sky. I seemed to hear the embroiderer singing the ancient ballad, her voice filled with blessings for the young girl, and each note seemed to tell a timeless and beautiful story.