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- Idle Hands -

Anita

 

 

As I sat at my Mother’s side, I was bored.  I know that is not what you should say but it was the truth.  My Mother had dementia and only occasionally recognised me during my visits.  I had to do something.  At first, I simply read to her – although I had never considered reading as anything but simple.  The trouble was that she kept asking me questions. She could not follow the plotlines or remember the names of the characters.  The flow was gone and I did not enjoy it.

 

They were spoilt offerings.

 

I could not read in her company again.

 

The next thing I tried was crosswords.  Despite my protests she insisted her answers were correct. 

 

They never were.

 

She made me write answers that were not answers and sometimes not even words.  It did not seem to matter that these words did not fit.  Too many letters or not enough.

 

I had had enough.

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*

**

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It is a difficult concept to recognise that the person you most recognise in your life does not recognise you; does not share your recollections and memories.  She did not share my love because my Mother has forgotten that she loved me.  She has forgotten my first step and first word, the times she tended my wounds, the times she let me cry and didn’t ask the reason for my tears. 

 

It is a difficult concept to recognise that your Mother, who you see every day, who is before you, has gone.

 

*

**

 

Somebody mentioned it.

 

They said it would be therapeutic.

 

I thought it would be boring.  And at first it was.

 

*

**

 

A stitch in time saves nine. 

 

I didn’t know what that meant.

 

Not then and not even now.

 

*

**

 

It started with a square and it started as something to alleviate the boredom whilst I sat beside the Mother who seldom recognised me, who never remembered.  But I was there because I did remember.  Some things are best not forgotten.

 

I sat there every day and every day it broke my heart.

 

*

**

 

It was just a square.

 

*

**

 

My own daughter Clare saw something in it all – something that I did not.

 

I do not understand social media but Clare does.  She is never without her phone.  It is almost an extension of her.  So, she posted a post, an image.  It was the image of what I had sewn.

 

It was just a square.

 

It was just a picture.

 

A square.

 

*

**

 

Stitching, embroidery, I did not know what to call it.  At first it was just something to pass the time, the endless time.

 

It was just something for my Mother.

 

 

 

 

 

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They were simple words.  A few words that took an age to formulate and a lot longer to sew.  It took me the best part of a month.  A month sat beside a bed.  A month beside someone that could not hear.  Not because she was deaf, it was that she increasingly did not understand words.

 

I had never sewn before, and considered my efforts weak. 

 

It was just a square.

 

A simple thank you.

 

*

**

 

Clare took a photograph and sent it out into the ether.  I don’t know where.  I do not understand these things.  Technology is a quagmire to me so I did not see Clare’s posts but I did see the replies.

 

Actually, that is not strictly true.  This was because the replies did not come over the internet, they came in the post.

 

The old-fashioned way.

 

 

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- Dinner -

Anthony

 

 

The envelopes were more or less the same size.  Inside the contents were all similar, some more expertly executed than others but that did not matter.

 

They were not uniform, but they were all squares.

 

Squares of sewing.

 

Frank was an enormous dog and no-one really understood the choice of his name.  It was not obvious but if you got to know Frank then you understood how it suited him. 

 

Anthony loved Frank.  Frank gave him routine and devotion.  He was the perfect companion.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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- Teacher’s Pet -

Adrian

 

 

Adrian recalled a gesture made when he was eight.  It was a kind gesture.  Even at eight Adrian knew what kindness was.  It was something that he had always learnt to recognise.

 

Adrian was now fifty-eight.

 

 

 

 

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-  One of Those Faces -

Angela

 

 

Angela’s story was about being alone.  That was why she could not cope – and she felt it was the end, and it nearly was.  Turned out to be the beginning. 

 

 

 

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- Check the Label -

Anon

 

 

The next delivery did not have a name attached, which was ironic, given it’s contents.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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- Come Closer -

Anthea

 

Her square was the one I felt was the saddest and most heartfelt.  But feelings from the heart are not a competition.  The expressions were in the fewest words.  You do not have to speak volumes to speak volumes.

 

 

 

 

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- Fanfare -

Ashleigh

 

Ashleigh wrote to him every day, and for each of her letters she received a reply.

 

The signature was digitised, but she hoped secretly that the replies really were from him, even though she knew in her heart that they were not.  However, she knew her heart as only teenagers do.  Hearts are pure and heart-felt and easily underestimated.

 

Still, she wrote every day.

 

 

 

 

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- Little Boxes -

Augustus

 

 

The words he wrote were alien to me.  It was not imbedded in my upbringing as it was obviously to him so, I did not recognise the impact.  I was an outsider - outside the ranks.

 

“Bless me Father for I have sinned.  It has been a week since my last confession”.

 

Gus told the story to Father Heffernan, knowing it was the duty of the priest to listen to the boys list of sins.  His Mother had told him what to say each week.  She had told him to say that he was disobedient or rude – or both.  Gus needed to say things to fill in the gaps.  His Mother had made him says these things because she believed that confession was good for the soul.

 

Gus had a simple mind and could never understand how confessing sins that he had not committed was right.  It was not honest, and confession was supposed to be about honesty.  However, he did what his Mother told him as he had always done.  Ever since his Father had left, she told him what to do.  There was no choice.

 

 

 

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- Sign of the Times -

Abbie

 

 

Nobody could understand Ellie except Abbie.  That was what her square was about.  Ellie could speak but her sounds were muffled.  It was because her hearing was muffled.  Communication therefore became different and difficult for everyone else, except the two of them, who always understood each other perfectly. 

 

Ellie could hear but she only heard one sound.  It was like being in a tunnel or being underwater but of course that meant nothing to Ellie as she had not experienced either sound.

 

 

 

 

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- Donation -

Abraham

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Abraham did not remember Aldus, although through his whole life, Aldus had been spoken about and remembered.  Abraham felt guilty about not remembering his sibling but he could not deny the truth, and the truth was that he did not remember his brother.

 

Even though Aldus was a part of him.  He was a part of his shared life, and his shared body.

 

Their parents had to make a decision and it was a monumental one.  Which brother were they to save?  At the end of the day, it wasn’t really a choice.

 

It had to be Abraham.

 

The decision was not based on preference or love.  The decision was based on practicality. 

 

So, Abraham and Aldus were separated.

 

Aldus died, as they knew he would.

 

Abraham had everything in life, except his left leg.  Aldus took that with him.  Except for Aldus it was his right leg.

 

The perils of being conjoined twins.  What belongs to you, belongs to me.

 

Abraham did not remember his brother or having a left leg.

 

Every evening he unleased his prosthetic with relief.  Abraham could cope, he had always coped.  It was just easier without the weight, without the burden.

 

He slept easier.

 

 

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- Helping Hands -

Anita

 

 

It was Clare’s idea to sew them together.  I think she had seen it done in an American film.  It was as if it was a story pieced together.  The perfect fit.

 

The squares, like a jigsaw, were pieced together – but not in wood.  Pieced together in embroidery and pieced together with love. 

 

Sewn with thread and sewn with love.  Each piece made a part of an overall story.  Together with Clare we sewed the squares together.  It was, after all, all about togetherness.  Together with Clare – Mother and Daughter. 

 

Together we made a quilt.

 

*

**

 

We were on the way to deliver the quilt to my own Mother.  The material made it feel warm and embracing.  When we reached the entrance to the care home, we knew we had made the wrong decision; our efforts were misplaced.

 

The care home was, as always, boiling hot.  Who would need a quilt?

 

I love my daughter, as every Mother should, but I loved my daughter more.  I loved her input and I loved her compassion.

 

*

**

 

We walked out of the care home after visiting my Mother and passed a woman that I had passed every day and never noticed.  Perhaps I had, but people do not want to recognise the homeless.

 

We did not know her name.

 

Anon.

 

Clare dropped the quilt at her side.

 

She did not notice.

 

The next time I visited the hospital she did not recognise me.

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