A Touch of a Hand

I run my hands slowly over the soft indentations and ridges of the fabric held loosely in my hands, the feel of the delicate material bringing me a little bit of comfort and security. But I know, just know, it isn't going to last. The ridges that define the quilting patterns are definitely there, the quilting tiny, even and very impressive. But deep inside I know this will change, will never be the same feeling if satisfaction and delight again. My years as a quilter come back to me in a rush of emotion-- the images crowd into each other, rushing thick and fast, colorful, hurtful, inspirational, painful,all spinning in a crazy dance in my mind, because I know this may be the end. The end of an era, and the end of my joyful career. And the end of my life in a way, because the act of creation has become,no, IS my life.

Once upon a time, in a faraway land and time, I picked up two pieces of fabric and put them together. Then two more, and yet another two. Creating beauty was a challenge, a joy, then an obsession. I stitched pieces together into pictures, pillows and small gifts for friends and family. Stitching and giving was a joy, until somebody said maybe I should try quilting that finished product to a soft fluffy background,and then quilting became an act of pure pleasure. I began to stitch every time I could. I drew designs, made patterns, sewed and glued and beaded and glittered and just enjoyed seeing and feeling my creations. And I quilted. Quilting requires feeling the fabric: smoothing out wrinkles, feeling for design lines,hand pressing small areas and large one to prepare for the needle, then smoothing the finished product with sensitive fingertips, ready to soften uneven places or to pull out roughness and do it all over again if needed. It requires hands that know life, that feel to their very core, hands that can comfort or smooth or hold and hug. And I did it all with sensitive fingertips. I joyfully, fearfully, carefully, often painfully, wonderingly, adeptly, softly, regretfully, lovingly smoothed and hugged, tickled and pounded in a daily competition to make it the way I planned and hoped it would be in the end. Years of delicate,sensitive fingers climbing in and out of fabrics until I got the workmanship I wanted, the look and feel the way I had planned. Just like in life, and my work became integral to my life, a part if it that challenged yet thrilled me by its very existence.

I stitched my way through life,through marriage, birth and death, sickness and health, good times and not-so-good ones, weaving a portrait of my own existence through color, action, waves and circles and flowerlets and lines of all lengths,sizes,shapes and hues. The poetry of my life, wrapped up in cotton, linen and silk, held together by faith, fabric, living breathing threads of every shade. That white one covered our wedding bed, that blue one was created for our first son. And that pink one, or that one with the cars, or trains, the dollies, the flowers and unicorns , castles and dragons or farm animals and tractors, or snowflakes and Santas and decorated trees. Or the somber one left from his funeral, or the piece of red, white and blue left over from a memorial to our list of heroes,or....... There are too many to list, too many to recall, too many to remember. Yet I can't seem to stop remembering. The memories roll by in an endless parade, some painful, some pleasant, all pounding my brain and forcing me to look at the past and remember its joys and sorrows.

I put down the piece I have been unknowingly crumpling even as I stroke it and sigh. It gets harder and harder to work, harder and harder to feel the softness leaking through my fingers into rivulets of cotton or linen. The doctor's words are pounding in my head,making me dizzy and faint at the same time. Why couldn't he have waited to tell me? Why now? What difference would it have made to him if I hadn't found out until after my first great grandchild had arrived? I have already planned that welcoming quilt,that mix of sunlight and sunflower and rainbows to welcome another generation. Okay, so I have lupus. Okay, I can deal with another ailment. It isn't as though I haven't spent a lifetime fighting some illness or another: cancer, miscarriages, diabetes, arterial hardness, COVID, sight and hearing and tastelessness. One more problem, that's all it is. But to tell me my feeling in the tips of my fingers will soon be gone--- no, that's a living death. My fingers are my existence, my pleasures and comforts stem from being able to feel life clear through to my fingertips. With and in and by my fingers. After all, I haven't had fingerprints for decades because of the constant smoothing and stroking that quilting demands. But to lose feeling -- well that's a different thing altogether. How can I feel the changes in patterns and designs when my fingers grow leathery and harden? How can I tell when the fabric,like life, needs repair, if I lose that ability to feel the differences? I need to be able to feel the colors and textures and softness and... Well just everything. Does this mean a life of textureless existence, of getting up each day and just sitting, staring at my sewing machines and ,.And what? If I can't feel it, how can I feel life?My life.

I know myself. I know I won't let this diagnosis stop me from living, from continuing, from feeling. As long as I have life, I will go on feeling... feeling life, feeling fabric, feeling things. No, I won't give up. Won't let some stupid disease stop me from living. I pick up the pieces of cloth,the patterns of my life as someone said already, that fell from my slowly numbing fingers and keep on working.