Threaded Memory

From the time she was born, my daughter Lisbeth was always the light of my life. Although she was born with a rare genetic condition, she never let it stop her from living her life to the fullest. She was so small at birth that she initially wore doll's clothing and shoes, and I came to enjoy making custom dresses to fit her tiny frame. 

From the time she was small, she showed a great fondness for creative activities. I always tried to pass on new skills and knowledge to her. We baked cakes together, explored nature, and did crafts. Crafting was her favorite. I remember teaching her to hand sew, watching her thread the needle ever so carefully and stitching two small pieces of fabric together. I loved to watch her concentrate as she used her little pink kitty scissors on her projects. She often used scraps to fashion little outfits for her dolls. I sewed her a quilt out of her baby blankets. I had made her a costume that she wore to an anime convention where she not only won the costume contest, but reduced a judge to tears because she was so tiny and cute.

One theme that remained consistent was her love of fashion. She considered herself a "fashionista," and loved clothing and makeup. As she grew, so did her wardrobe. She was known around our town for her upbeat, friendly attitude and her great sense of style. No matter what I did, she was right by my side, learning and watching with those big brown eyes. She was so full of life and love. She was my inspiration and my little best friend.

Due to her genetic condition, I knew it was a possibility but nothing could have prepared me for the death of my child. I stayed by her side for hours at the hospital, but at just five years old, her heart stopped beating and my little girl was gone. I was left in a state of deep despair. I was devastated and heartbroken. Nothing mattered and I found no joy or meaning in my life.

As I mustered the fortitude needed to sort through her belongings, I began to look through her clothing. Memories came flooding to me. It seemed as though every piece had a story attached to it. This is the shirt she wore on her first day of school, I thought. I held a sequined tee with the words "today will be great." A petite, colorful dress that was given to her by a friend from Sweden. The unicorn pajamas she always loved because her step-sister had a matching set. The pink top she wore on her last birthday. She always loved pink...

I sat there, sobbing. These pieces held such sweet memories within them. This purple and lace striped top that she had worn on our first trip to the zoo, or the pink and gold sequined dress that she had picked out for the father-daughter dance at her kindergarten... How could I bring myself to get rid of them when it was all I had left of my daughter? I glanced at my sewing machine and came up with an idea. I decided to try and make a patchwork skirt out of her clothing. It was all I could do to remain connected to my daughter.

I began to sort her clothing into neat stacks based primarily on color. What I ended up with were two tidy piles of mostly pink and blue clothes. I took my great-grandmother's Italian, antique scissors and, using a square of cardboard as a pattern piece, began to delicately cut my daughter's clothing into large patches.

Initially, I felt much apprehension as I worked. What if I messed up? There was no way to get more materials. As I saw the number of patches increasing though, I tried to assure myself that my daughter would have loved the project, no matter the outcome. I listened to the gentle sound as I cut the fabric, finding peace and reassurance in its consistency. Truth be told, I had no idea what I was doing. I had never attempted a project such as this before, but I felt that it needed to be done. I wanted it to be done. When I finished cutting the patches from the clothing, I arranged them into rows, according to the order in which I wanted them to be sewn onto the skirt.

I carefully pinned the first row of patches in place. Using a pale pink thread, I began to move the fabric through the sewing machine. I began to feel comforted, even confident, as I began the first "real work" on my project. I knew I could do this. The mechanical hum of the machine lulled me into a state of deep calmness, a private moment to be alone with my thoughts.

With the first row of colorful patches in place, I pinned and began on the second row. Each row, each single piece of cloth, brought with it distinct memories. As I touched each piece, I remembered my daughter and who she was as a person. Her sweet demeanor, her laugh, her kind nature. I sewed through a patch of white and pastel blue stripes that had been one of her favorite dresses. My eyes blurred with tears and I began to cry. I had to push through. I had to finish the project. 

As I worked, a beautiful piece of clothing began to appear in front of me. Rows of sweet kittens, mermaids, bright blues and pinks, glitter and patterns all flowed together into a gorgeous portrait of Lisbeth's life. With this skirt, I felt as though I held my daughter in my hands. All of her memories, her experiences, her joys, were summed up into one piece of rainbow fabric.

Now complete, I feel as though the skirt was our last project together. It is a culmination of her sweet personality, her life, our happiness together, my efforts, my tears and my love for my daughter which no death could ever sever.