Her sewing machine arrived today and a hand-written note with a sunshine doodle from old hands missing a sister pair.

I'm upended. Longing and love and crushing guilt. Grief. Smell of childhood and old things and her linger in the air- heavy has my heart. Joy.

The sight of her thimbles knot my throat. Dainty bone china; contradiction of fragility and proud protection. Armour for hand soldiers skillfully avoiding wayward needle-blades. Archivists and faintly scarred librarians, intimately acquainted with the histories of her: weaving love in a language of thread and fabric.

The skill is now mine to learn. Her history and mine will continue in stitches and in quiet contemplation. In death she needs no more protection. Devoted child of her god delivered back into His embrace. She was guarded so long. Watch over my learning, my hands, my love language. Threads of hope run through this lifeline yet.