My mother died unexpectedly almost 4 years ago. It was a surprise and a shock and I was not ready for it. Suddenly, besides mourning, I had so much to deal with and it was a nightmare. I took some of her things but so much of it just made me so sad and there were so many bills to pay, that I sold most of it. The things I kept were all of her sewing supplies, except for her sewing machine which I gave to her close friend. I kept all her sewing books and cross stitching items as well.
Over time it has gotten much easier and all the hard stuff has long been finished. I have been trying to learn how to sew on my own using her enormous fabric stash and collection of thread, I have yet to have to buy threat or fabric. Her quilting obsession began long after I moved out of her house and on my own, but today, I decided to start a new project, one that I have not done in many years, something she taught me how to do and as a kid I would watch her work and be amazed at the beautiful things she created using only a needle and thread. Today, I opened up her collection of cross stitch supplies.
As a child I would watch her sit in her chair and stitch for hours on end. She was ambidextrous, meaning she could do anything with both of her hands. She used both hands to cross stitch and finished projects that were perfect in record time. Believe me, these things were perfect, if they had a flaw, she would correct it. She used to tell me that it was very important for the backs to look almost exactly like the fronts. She was neat and organized.
I took out a pattern this morning and went an opened the giant tote I keep all of her threats in. I did not think for one moment that all the colors I would need for this project would be missing, and I was right. All of her threats were neatly organized and labeled by numbers in small plastic organizers and so I had not trouble finding the exact colors I needed.
I miss my mother and think of her every day. I found the one plastic box that contained my own collection of hardly used cross-stitch threats and compared them to my mothers. Mine were thrown in, numbered but not in order and messy while her’s were perfect. Instead of feeling sad and guilty for using “her things”, I am glad that I have them. I can remember my mom teaching me how to do it and perhaps, my kids will someday remember happy times watching me do it. Thank you mom for leaving me the most important parts of you, in my heard, mind and in my memories. If only I can keep everything just as well organized as you did.