I can't distinguish where her hand-stitches end and the machine picks up. I know—intellectually—that her hands finally failed as she made this quilt. I know, but it doesn't mean I believe. Each point in line. Each pucker perfect. The thread lines regular and expected. I know she ran to her ability's end. But I can't see it.
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This speaks to me of contentedness, of family, of quiet admiration, of how sometimes the heart does defeat the mind. This makes me hear the rustle of the fabric as it slides through the machine, and the creak of a rocking chair. It's a feeling that's been escaping me at present.
ReplyDeleteI really like this.