Writers share the stories behind their source of solace following a significant loss

In a time of sorrow, it’s often those seemingly innocuous things that are somehow infused with the power to soothe. It could be the clock you inherited, the personalized pillow you knitted but never got around to giving away, or a bag of muffins handed to you by a stranger who knew you’d be hungry. Writers share the stories behind their source of solace following a significant loss

Cushioning the Blow

Rina Kaufman

I take comfort in: The pillow I made for my mother

W

hen I was 21, I decided to take up needlepointing — not a very popular pastime, but I was bored being an “older single,” and since my mother was one of those who needlepointed at the bungalow colony pool, I thought it could be a shared hobby.

Much to our surprise, I was actually good at it. My mother and I never had much in common, but the time we spent needlepointing or discussing projects and stitches brought us closer together.

When I was 23, I decided that I wanted to surprise my mother by sewing her a pillow as a Chanukah present. It would be brightly colored (she loved lively hues) and filled with intricate and complicated stitches, including some I’d never tried before — something that would not only make her happy, but also impress her. The problem was that the project I was envisioning would take at least six months of steady work, and it was nearly Succos.

I decided to do it anyway, and for the next two-and-a-half months, I didn’t have a life outside of sewing. I would come home from work at 5 p.m., eat a quick supper, and sew until 3 a.m. I would then sleep for five hours, go to work, and repeat. I took my lunch breaks at the needlepoint store, working with the staff to perfect my rhodes, cushion, and byzantine stitches. No friends, no family, nothing but needles; I wonder what my mother thought I was doing.

Sunday, November 18th was two days before my deadline — the canvas had to be completed with enough time to be professionally finished into a pillow, and I was almost there. I was in my room, halfway through a row, when my brother called my cell phone.

“Something’s wrong,” he said.  “I was on the phone with Mommy, she was in the car, then I heard a loud sound, and now I can’t reach her.”

Another driver ran a red; Mommy died on impact.

When I finally made it back to my bedroom many hours later, I found my needlepoint on my bed waiting for me, the last row of stitches unfinished.

Mommy made supper for me, I suddenly remembered. It’s still in the oven.

I went to the kitchen, choked down half the chicken, and stuck the remainder in the freezer until I could deal with it.

S

hivah was exhausting; I don’t speak much generally, but I felt that if I stopped talking about Mommy, she would be forgotten. As I sat one day with people who came to be menachem avel, I finally brought up my needlepoint project and how pained I was that my mother never got to enjoy it — or even to know what I was doing all those weeks in my room. I remember telling the mother of one of my sister’s friends about how I spelled out Mommy’s name in bright red, a color she loved, when she interrupted me.

“Your mother knows about the pillow now. And she loves it, and how much work you put into it. But you know what? That pillow was never meant for her. One day, you’ll get married and have a daughter that you’ll name after your mother. And when she’s old enough to appreciate this pillow, you’ll give it to her. She’ll see her name, ‘Chaya,’ in red, and you’ll tell her about your mother and how that was her favorite color. She’ll see all those intricate stitches, and you’ll tell your daughter about how your mother loved to sew, and how she appreciated the beauty in things. You’ll tell her the story behind the pillow, and she’ll know how much you and your mother loved each other,” she said. “This was never your mother’s pillow. Put it away somewhere safe, and finish it when it’s the right time.”

I remember those words verbatim 12 years later. And while I still wait in my house full of boys to be bentshed with my own Chaya (and to finally finish Mommy’s pillow), these words of nechamah still bring me peace.

Rina Kaufman is a writer in Lakewood, New Jersey.