To Embroidered Linens

You used to be plain, unloved even, but she saw the potential. Right there, in the corner, she will sew a small flower with teeny tiny stitches. You will not recognize yourself when she is done.

First, the dark red petals, box shaped, six x’s smaller than a grain of rice. Below that, the light pink, which means she had to get out another needle; embroidery doesn’t allow the sewer to get into a groove the way knitting or crochet does. This has no flow. Nevermind that this bloom has no counterpart in nature; everyone will see it as flower. Thread and needle change again and she adds the light green stems. And one final touch: unconnected to the stem or the petals, but close, a single sky-blue “x”, the smallest of all the stitches. That one is the artistry. Is it a butterfly? A bit of sky? A wayward petal of nearby violet? Perhaps she would say, it’s color, it’s accent, it’s depth.

She repeats this on 20 napkins and then tucks them in the buffet cabinet. She brings them out at lunch on Saturday and always for dinner. Beauty for everyday use. Her children think little of them, not even realizing that when they were babies, falling asleep after a full summer day, she was in the next room, head bent, sewing. She loved the way it kept the room quiet. She loved the order.

It’s been years since she sewed these; the kids have moved. When she dies, an estate sale company comes in and helps them sort and sell. You are folded and taped together. Labeled $1. Not because you are worth merely a dollar, but because they are forced to quantify the unquantifiable and a dollar seems as likely as any other price.

My friend discovers you and cannot believe her good luck. These? A dollar? She knows the labor involved; she understands raising kids and the chaos that runs through a day. She is a great lover of the small and unappreciated. Fate has clearly matched you two.

We are at her house, 7 of us. Friday and we’ve all gotten off work, dashed home, said hello and goodbye to our families and headed over. She places you on the counter and we are all rapt by the enormous delicateness. We are suddenly not alone, not simply this small group of friends. We are a part of a larger history, sewn in small flowers in all the linens in all our closets.