I sat on the rug in the family room, concentrating on the needle in my hand.
Without turning, I could tell that my daughter was standing in the doorway to the kitchen.
“What are you doing, Mum?” she asked.
“I’m darning the rug. It’s got a few holes and I’m trying to mend them.”
“Who are you?” she asked.
Unasked, but loud nonetheless, was her follow-up question: “And what did you do with my mother?”
Some of you know this rug. It’s the one that was on our verandah. We suspect it’s about 100 years old. But how many things do you know that have retained their gorgeous colour (despite the threadbare spots and holes) after 100 years?
But I digress.
I’m not a do-it-yourselfer. I have ten thumbs and no talent.
But it was a great day in my world: pain no worse than usual; speech clear; best of all, my daughter was here. It was like winning the lottery.
Plus, the lady in the yarn store was sure I could mend the rug.
“I even lost the two sets of yarn I’d bought here”, I confessed.
She smiled and reassured me yet again.
Back at home, I threaded the huge needle and pulled the wool over the hole, criss-cross. It looked awful. My mother’s voice popped into my head: “You need a patch of fabric.”
I asked my husband: “Have you a thick old sock? Something I can cut up?”
We found one. Its colour almost perfectly matched that section of the rug. I cut out a chunk, put it under the hole and started mending.
And that’s what I was doing when my daughter spied me.
But when she came closer to inspect, even she was impressed.
If a bit speechless.