Annabelle took my hand in hers and grinned at our work.
I never did finish my third bird. But two years later, Annabelle still goes to sewing classes. She designs and makes stuffed animals, pillows—-anything she wants. She is a good sewer, a fast reader, a poet. In the late afternoon, as the sky begins to turn from blue to lavender, we sit together, Annabelle with her sewing and me with a book. “Remember your birds?” Annabelle sometimes asks.
“I do,” I say. “I remember.”
And she climbs onto my lap, her body fitting just right against mine.
“How did I get so lucky to have you for my daughter?” I murmur.
“Mom!” Annabelle says, rolling her eyes.
Then she pulls her needle and thread through the fabric she’s holding, making slow, even stitches. What I know now is that we are all, each of us, doing just that. Even a failed seamstress like me keeps sewing, in a way. There is my daughter Annabelle, and the memory of my daughter Grace—and there is me, carefully stitching our lives together.
Ann Hood is the author of The Knitting Circle and a new novel, The Obituary Writer.
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