Lately all I say about my cloth creations is: it’s finished, it’s almost finished, this one’s not been finished for a long time.

Maybe I’ve become vacuous. Maybe thoughts about what I’m making aren’t cohering right now.

The house as symbol of home has endured for me. Home as sanctuary, home as placemarker, home as stand-in for the self.

Let the cloth do the talking is certainly one way to go.

What I will say about this little piece is that I kept working on it long after I might have considered it done in the past. You could say: I fussed.

I kept adding to rooflines on the big houses and kept finding more places to add a roof in the woven foreground.

Unlike business as usual, I wouldn’t quit quilting as long as even the slightest bulge was in evidence.

I might be in less of a hurry. My standards may have shifted slightly. I don’t know. I certainly don’t think of my home as a sanctuary right now, so maybe straightening rooflines and quilting a moon to within an inch of its life gave me something to do other than cry.

We went to three performances in our town’s Porchfest yesterday. The heat stifled and against all reason most songs made me think of Danny. But at least we got out and connected with friends and family.

At 12:18 last night I realized, outside of getting choked up talking to another mom who lost a son to suicide, I did not cry yesterday. Yesterday, then, was the first day since March 16 that there were no tears.

I’m not sure that’s to be celebrated.

P.S. I included pieces of both of these cutter-garments and one other that I bought in Longmont.

P.P.S. The quilt includes a Deb Lacativa scrap (house on right) as well as pieces of six other garments, including one I purchased in Denver a few years back and also including a rectangle from an old pair of boxers of Danny’s (the green plaid under the black window).

Andrea Gibson (deceased) and Megan Falley.