November used to be my favorite month, but since my son died from covid, it’s bittersweet. His birth was the first time I really understood the depths of love between a mother and child. He would have been 46 on November 26. I do my best to put on a brave face and be a functioning member of society, but in those rare still moments, the sadness is overwhelming.
That brings me to my next topic.
It’s 7 PM and I am freshly showered and in bed recovering from a two-day craft show while filling out the application for another one in December. I tell myself just one more show, just one more batch of wholesale bags, just one more… fill in the blank, and then I will have time to finish that book or do a few repairs around the house and dig out of this mess I have made over the last few months, but at all costs, I must not be still.
Age may cure me of this madness, since it is much more difficult to recover from these events as I get older.
Alas, this is a blog about writing- so here is an excerpt from my work in process that I confess, I have not touched in three months:
Everyone turned to watch as the beautiful middle-aged woman entered the room. Abreast of the latest fashion, she wore a floral print dress in shades of pink and yellow that fell just below her knees. The fitted waist showed off her trim figure, and the full skirt swayed gracefully as she meandered about the room. The dress had short sleeves, which revealed her bronze toned arms and a modest neckline that was accented by a strand of pearls that glinted in the light.
Beside her, she carried a small wicker basket filled with sewing supplies, including needles, thread, and buttons, assuring each of her guest had the tools to complete her task. Her auburn hair fell in loose waves, held back from her face with a simple hairpin. After checking on a few of the ladies, she settled in amongst them to work on her own project. Her nimble fingers moved swiftly over the fabric, sewing a hem with precision and care as she chatted amiably with the other women, nodding and smiling as she stitched.
Kathryn’s mother Juliette was a social butterfly and the host of this weekly sewing social, where women came together to reattach buttons and mend uniforms for soldiers. Juliette thrived in these gatherings, but to Kathryn, the event was nothing more than an antagonistic cacophony of laughter, giggles and shrieking voices that, in combination, over stimulated her senses and wreaked havoc on her nerves. Between shallow conversations and superficial niceties, Kathryn equated her mother’s gatherings to nothing less than torture.
Here's to wishing you a blessed and love filled Thanksgiving with your family and friends.