#90til50, Day 2 (89 left).

My mother abandoned me when I was three years old during an extremely traumatic event. So I thought I didn’t remember her hands. After all, how could I?

Through my childhood, though she was disparaged in so many other ways, the one thing that I was always told is how talented she was when it came to fabric and cloth. My paternal grandmother, who raised me, was a crocheter who often expressed jealousy at my mother’s talent with knitting needles. Or, when she was struggling with the tissue paper of patterns, would comment on how my mom could make her own patterns.

And here I am today, in the midst of making my own patterns to make clothes for people. I’ve been able to see my clothes get years of wear, and have even patched / mended things I’ve made because they get so much wear. Honestly, there are few compliments higher than that.

It’s when I’m sewing, or knitting, or crocheting that I do feel I can see my mother’s hands, that I remember what they were maybe like.