On it, Grandma had practiced the green leaf pattern she’d eventually stitched onto Lily’s hem.
The first leaf was crooked.
The second was worse.
The third was almost right.
I stared at it for a long time.
Grandma had been sewing for nearly 90 years when she made that dress.
And still, apparently, she practiced first.
I framed that scrap too.
Because I’d spent most of my life thinking Grandma knew how to do everything without being afraid or uncertain.
She didn’t.
She simply kept going until the next stitch held.
I think about that now whenever motherhood scares me.
Whenever Lily climbs too high.
Whenever she gets sick.
Whenever I feel that old panic telling me to hold too tightly because I waited so long to have her.
I think about a 101-year-old woman enduring a 90-minute car ride because missing the birthday was worse than the journey.
And I think about the unfinished sleeve.
