Twelve years ago, I began to hand sew a patch work. I thought it might one day become a blanket or maybe a wall hanging. Every single piece of fabric used is from clothing my three eldest wore in the first year of their life. Each piece brings back memories. Each piece is beautiful because of that very fact.
Over the years, I have picked it up, sewn a little more and put it away to be forgotten until the next time. Each letter takes me forever to hand sew. I love sewing by hand, but alas I am not very, very good at it. It’s a bit messy; I use whatever thread I have on hand and I sometimes don’t always use the same thread all the way through even sewing one letter. It is to be honest a bit haphazard, like a lot of things I do. But also like most everything I do, it is done with much enjoyment, and much love. I reminisce with each stitch, enjoying the incredibly happy memories I am blessed to have.
It is now finished. The final stich has been sewn. And I feel proud. Proud that (at last) I have finished. Proud of all the work which has gone ito it over the years- happy years, sad years, easy times and hard times, each stitch sewn. A patchwork of memories. A patchwork of years.
I am pleased with the end result. I need to insert here that I am easily pleased. If it has anything to do with my family, I love it regardless of the quality. Gary and I decided to have it as a wall hanging in our living room and this is why I sewed on some woollen tags to tie to some dowelling:
Hand made, with not too much attention to detail, but with a huge amount of love.