Will It Never End?

Trey took this picture last week of my wedding gift in progress. It was supposed to be 5 feet by 6 feet, and clearly using size 10s instead of 8s makes a MASSIVE DIFFERENCE. But it is beautiful and it feels softer and softer as it grows. I will start section 20 of FIFTY-FIVE fucking sections this afternoon, surreptitiously, under my desk. I lug it around in a Duane Reade bag (knows as Lillet Vuitton in our house) and look like a crazy lady.

Last week was lovely -- we went to the Mermaid Parade and held a yard sale in front of our house, which was super fun. We made $250 and drank beer all day, and Trey listened to the Mets on his handheld little radio. We met nice people (Guido and his wife) and rude, crazy people (like the guy who angrily tried to talk me down to three dollars from for for a brand new iron. Umm, no. And now that you are being a dick about it, double-no.)

A woman in her late fifties stopped by early in the day: grey bob, worn green canvas shopping bag with an environmental slogan on it, Birks with socks. She took a long time poking through my costume jewelry and finally asked me to model a necklace (from the 1930s, a mesh of apricot-glazed metal tiles.) She said it was for her daughter, she was looking for things for her. It turned out her daughter lived in Portland, Oregon; was an anti war activist, did other community work, and traveled a lot to Central America. As she told me this, she looked at more and more of the clothes: would choose a piece, pay for it, and put it into her shopping bag to send to her daughter.

This killed me, having been the recipient of so much unwanted-at-the-time crap from my mom over the years: tights from Marshalls, stuff from yard sales, "clothes for just bumming around." Watching this woman linger over my castoffs with excruciating care was like watching my own mom miss me, shopping somewhere, alone.

And one day that will be me. Hungering for a connection with my child, and possibly angering the fuck out of her. Being categorically WRONG, other, unwanted.

I worried about the woman. Maybe her daughter is nicer than I was? Maybe she loves getting yard sale clothes from her mom? What if the mom sent her too much stuff and felt bad? What could I do? Nothing.

"You must be very proud of your daughter," I said.

Her smile was shy and radiant. "Yes, I am. She turned out to be a very kind person. Yes, I am."