Traveling home from Colorado I anticipated stitching as something to get back to, something that would afford familiar routine and ballast. After all, I’ve been quilting for as long as I’ve lived in Newton and I’ve been here since 1986. It’s a welcome and ordinary activity, one long established as part of my life.

But not the Epstein quilt! I thought. No no no. I’ll make abstract colorful patchworks or tiny woven squares that don’t reference the news or any other kind of horror.

But guess what? The Epstein quilt was on the living room pinboard, staring at me. There was even a thread attached and ready to go.

So it found its way to my lap and I’m not mad.

I’m using black acrylic felt as a base again and again enjoying how well it takes a needle. Some of the cloth on top is misbehaving, most of it actually — bubbling or refusing my direction for positioning. I’m assuming all waywardness can be managed with enough quilting.

That becomes kind of a mission too.

In the design find: pigs, spiders, maps of islands, cameras and money (thank you Lisa for supplying such apt patterns!), innocent children, a tower the color of dried blood, and the words, “wake up.”

Speaking of living in Newton, yesterday we had a call with a lovely rabbi who runs a Parents of Children who died by Suicide group. It’s through the Jewish Family and Children Services. At some point I mentioned that my husband and I were both atheists, raised Catholic.

And at some point she, in this long (free and extremely helpful) phone call, explained that although the organization is Jewish and she’s a rabbi, one’s faith doesn’t matter.

“We follow the Jewish calendar and mark some holidays, so you may learn some new vocabulary.” I laughed and just said, “We live in Newton.” She knew what I meant.

Laugh. Go ahead. That’s supposed to be (and is) funny.

Just a recent example: our nextdoor neighbors stopped by with flowers and lovely memories of Danny (he had such a deep voice as a toddler!) and mentioned that their Seder would be on the weekend, while our across-the-street neighbor would be hosting 20 for the first night of Passover the next day. “And she keeps a kosher kitchen!” I exclaimed to groans all round.

This JF&CS group meets online once a month and the next gathering is at the end of April so we have time — time for some of the shock we’re in to ease a little (presumably?) Our contact noted that because we’re still in shock, we may not be ready yet to listen to other people’s stories. This feels correct.

It’s super clear now that it’s way more important to be specifically with other parents who’ve lost a child to suicide than it is to meet in person.