The bottom of the bin held a stash of vintage cotton fabric; I found remnants from a set of curtains she'd made for a much loved childhood bedroom. There was a pink calico from a set of doll clothes, a blue gingham from a familiar pillow backing and a pink candy cane stripe from a skirt she'd made for me once. Out of distraction more than anything, I gathered these pieces, cut some not very uniform squares, (I struggle a little bit with precise things like numbers and measuring) and decided to start piecing them together.
I didn't really have a plan. I don't sew, I certainly don't quilt, and Mom's sewing machine can really only accurately be described as a hostile adversary of mine. But the distraction kept me from crying too much, so I pressed onward. Over the course of 48 hours I listened to every sad song I could find in my CD/tape collection, and somehow I managed to piece together a quilt top. Most importantly, the ache in my chest was just a tiny little bit lighter than it was when I started.
Fast forward a whole bunch of years. Mom found that quilt top one day and brought it over to the house. I was so surprised - I'd forgotten it. Like memories do, though, I was sharply reminded upon seeing it of that broken heart and the bruise I carried from it. I took it to a quilter friend who helped me get it top-stitched, then all that was left to do was bind it.
And here's where another gigantic break in time happens. Binding is hard. Maybe not for a regular quilter, but for me? It's hard. I would have to sit still in one place for a LONG time. I would have to have some dexterity in my fingertips. I would have to care about things like the aforementioned numbers and measuring. Binding is not really a Sara Gudahl activity. So I boxed up the quilt top and stuffed it back in a closet.
Fast forward a whole bunch more years. Cleaning out a closet one day, I found that quilt top, and quilter friend Holly happened to be over. She said, "Seriously? You still haven't bound that quilt?" I think I maybe just grinned sheepishly. She scooped it up and took it home with her. Today she brought it back.
Somehow she found vintage cotton prints that so closely resemble the originals, they look like they belonged on it. She bound it so beautifully, and when I pulled it out of the bag, do you know what happened? I expected to feel the bite and sting of that original broken heart. I thought I would sharply remember the pain of it and the reason for making this quilt in the first place. But you know what they say about time and it's ability to soften things. Instead, I thought about my mom.
There's a big old metaphor just begging to be used here - my Mom solved problems like a Boss. She was the Master, the Queen Bee of problem solving. She was so good at it - there was almost nothing she couldn't do. But that particular winter, she knew she couldn't fix my problem; she couldn't keep my heart from breaking. But she did know that it needed to be stitched back together, and she knew I had to do it myself. So she brought me a bunch of scraps, some representatives of my childhood and reminders of things that mattered, and challenged to make something out of it. And look at that - I did.
Then she went and left me, and broke my dang heart all over again.
Holly, you know how important you are to me, friend. You said this wasn't a big deal - but it was. Thanks for finishing this for me. It's not just a binding, you know. You stitched together a few pieces of my broken heart, and for that - I can never say thank you enough.
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