It was not a gift but I feel that I should say thank you. I feel I know you a little from those many things that your family chose not to keep. There they were, framed needlepoints and embroideries, leaning against the base of a big tree at the market, at five dollars a piece. And on the trestle, everything was going at two dollars each.
Your work was imperfect, like something that I might have made but knew better not to attempt. Maybe that’s why I chose to bring home this piece. Maybe it was the Dragon – perhaps we were born in the same year?
Your needlepoint reminds me of a project I barely completed during the thirty hours of being radioactive for the first time more than thirty years ago. Locked in a lead lined room with the skull and cross bone on the door. I’m still living with its legacy –the nuclear implant, that is, not the needlepoint though it taught me a life long lesson when I didn’t know how long that life may be. Don’t waste time.
Your embroidery reminds me of a grandmother who never gave up teaching me how to perfect the satin stitch, but I did –give up, that is; perfection has no appeal.
I fished out the five dollars from my wallet when I saw the regret on the face of your loved one and heard the break in her voice when she said, no, I didn’t make it; my xxxx did.
I am filled with admiration for your persistence in completing so many projects; I’ve abandoned as many. I want to honour those hours you must have spent working on them –alone or in company? I will never know; but I am with you now.