Today I went hunting for jeans and was rewarded for my search. I felt indulgent and bought several pairs. But as I turned the corner toward linens I stopped in my tracks. There was a small star quilt I had made a few years ago. I checked the price tag. Eighteen dollars. I looked over my shoulder and added it to the pile. 

While I could not quite recall who I had given it to, the pain of rejection was sharp. I ran my fingers over the quilting lines and recalled how obstinate some of the pieces had been. But in the end it lay flat and I was pleased with it. Apparently the recipient was not. It had taken perhaps fifteen hours of my time and a couple of yards of batik.  I took it home and told it I still loved it. 

Someone once said that pain is a bridge between people and I looked for where the ache was leading me. The twins saw me crying and wrapped their arms around my neck. Hope even sang "What Do I Do When My Mama is Crying?". I calmed down. 

Fifteen hours. Not an exorbitant amount of time, but still something. Longer than it takes to do a crossword puzzle, less than it takes to cross the Atlantic in a skiff. 

I thought of a woman I know whose marriage ended without her consent. She has told me that the rejection is excruciating. She lays awake plotting how to make him want her again, but in the morning, after a fitful sleep, she must face the harsh truth. He walked away. 

FIfteen years of her life she shared with him, bore children with him, made a home with him. He promised to love her always, but he changed his mind. 

She feels like a paper bag of discarded jeans at the bins. 

This afternoon I decided not to sit down at my sewing machine, even though I have bird blocks beckoning. I took out angel cards instead and wrote to a few people whose marriages ended before they wanted. 

I just want them to know I love them.