I’ve been working on cutting up Dad’s shirts to make quilts. Mom has actually been interested in working on them so I’ve had to keep cutting enough for Mom to sew.
Most of the time it doesn’t bother me. I feel like we’re all going to have some memories of him to hold near. But sometimes, like tonight, not so easy. I run across one of his shirts that I can tell was one of his favorites. I hadn’t spent so much time with him in the last couple of years that I knew all of the shirts that were his favorites. I did know some of them, but others I can tell because they’re worn at the collars and cuffs. Or have a few stains. One had paint in several places. Going by the color, I think he must have worn it when he painted the shelf for the flower box by the front porch.
Thinking of him doing the everyday things, that’s hard.