People sometimes ask me to make t-shirt quilts. They might be for a graduation gift, with a collection of sports team logos, and summer camp attire. Less often they want quilts made to commemorate someone who has died. I am working on one now. 

I often sing as I sew, and this morning the song that looped on repeat was one my Uncle Donald loved me to play for him. 

It's about compassion, and to be truthful it always moved him more than it did me. I was young then, and empathy was still theoretical. But I loved my uncle and so I sang for him. 

Benjamin had not come downstairs yet. The day before had been rough for him, and by proximity for all of us as well. We gave him his first dose at five a.m. rather than the usual seven which was not a good omen. His anxiety rumbled at boiling... sometimes just below, often just above. We pulled out our best tricks, which includes pills, reading the Word, and calls from his siblings. Since there were thirty guests for lunch, the Odhner collective prayer was for him to stay calm. We made it through the day, but just barely.

By the time I climbed into bed I was whooped. I fell asleep to him yelling. 

The temptation after such an ordeal is to hold a grudge. He woke up agreeably enough, but that does not easily erase the turmoil of the day before. Then as I chopped up the clothes of a man who was beloved by his family I remembered what his daughter had admitted. 

"He was pretty stubborn. You know. My way or the highway." Yet she loved him enough to want this quilt. The family I was creating it for was choosing to remember the dear times with the man they loved. The affection for certain shirts, and trains that were his hallmark. 

With a rotary cutter in one hand and fabric in the other, the piece of the song that escaped my lips caught my notice.

"...yesterday's news..."

That's what my angst was about. Day old complaints. But today Benjamin was telling me jokes. 

"Where do fish keep their money? In the riverbank!"

At one point the cutter complained. These tools are pretty fearless when it comes to six or even eight layers of cloth. Yet it balked for reasons I could not see. I pushed harder. Then I looked at the other side of the shirt. Oops. There was a button. That blade would never recover from the insult of being slammed against polystyrene. 

Being Benjamin's mother can be a weary road. He wrestles against obstacles that are invisible to me. Yet the effort of loving him also has the capacity to impact how I see the world.