Waiting

I've never had an easy time letting things go. Things stay in the closet until I either work up the nerve to throw them out or give them away. But sometimes, rarely, things remain long enough that they have a renewed purpose.

The needle pops as it punctures the fabric in the hoop, and the thread makes a soft hiss as I pull it through to the other side. Pop, hiss, pop, hiss. It's almost meditative, if not for the soreness in my thumb from trying to push the needle through.

What started as a simple design of black thread on a white background has morphed into something more complex. Black outlines now house small white designs and grey embellishments, making the design more dynamic. Pop, hiss, pop, hiss.

The project comes with me around the house throughout the day. At the kitchen table, talking to my family over breakfast. Pop, hiss, pop, hiss. On the couch, watching a movie with them and enjoying their company. Pop, hiss, pop, hiss. In bed, long after everyone else is asleep, with my dog staring at me and likely wondering if I'm going to turn out the light any time soon. Pop, hiss, pop, hiss.

The project collects more notions as it goes. A rubber thimble to prevent the blisters on my thumb, lengths of wound floss waiting to be used and a pack of shiny new embroidery needles. An old wooden tea box from my closet becomes their new home as the project continues, rattling whenever it goes back into the bag. It waited in the closet for two years, being held onto because of the novelty and its potential. It's found a new purpose holding my notions for me.

Pop, hiss, pop, hiss. The soothing repetition continues until the kitchen scissors I've been using are commandeered for other uses. I'm left with a length of floss at the back of the project. I could wait until my dad is done using the scissors to cut it off, but that would require waiting. My impatience to continue my project is the nudge I need to find my mom's old sewing kit.

The folding wooden box holds buttons, needles and thread. Like me, my mom holds onto things that might have some future use. Unlike me, she's organized about it and keeps like things together. Her fabric scissors, which are never to be used for anything else, lay at the bottom. Nestled next to them are a pair of tiny gold scissors shaped like a stork, the only thing in there that belongs to me. As a child, I had been so enamoured with the pair my grandmother used that she gave me a pair of my own. They've sat in mom's sewing kit for years, waiting.

I add them to my notions tea box when I go back to the project. Pop, hiss, pop, hiss. I'm eventually offered the large, clunky and dull kitchen scissors back, and I show my dad the tiny gold scissors. He smiles and comments how my mom and I hold onto the strangest things. A raspberry blown at his retreating back is my only response. Pop, hiss, pop, hiss, I relax into the soothing rhythm and watch my project grow.

My boyfriend, Viraj, asks if I will have enough time to finish the project when he comes over for dinner. I only have a couple weeks left. He assures me that I can give my finished project to Triya whenever it's finished; it doesn't have to be for a special occasion. I tell him it's okay and it'll be ready.

For the first time since I started the project, I doubt. Would she like the design? Is there something I could purchase that she would like more? But the project in my hands was started with a purpose, and it will fulfill that purpose, I decide. Pop, hiss, pop, hiss, and I'm lost in the rhythm again.

I'm down to the wire nearly two weeks later and have enlisted my mom's help. Grey sateen is spread out on the kitchen table, with a list of carefully calculated dimensions laying on top of it. My mom thinks that the way I want to work the embroidered patch into the rest of the pillowcase is interesting. Creative and modern, she says—a geometric pattern of offset rectangles surrounding the white patch. We draw out the rectangles, and I watch as she cuts them out. It's a slow process; she doesn't want to make a mistake and waste any fabric trying again. I don't even dare to try; I can't cut in a straight line to save my life.

She sets up her sewing machine and sits with me while I sew the pieces together. I'm reminded of when I was a kid, and she made Halloween costumes for me. I used to sit next to her as she worked; now, the roles are reversed. My tiny gold scissors snip away the extra thread when I'm finished, and the pillow insert is worked into the pillowcase.

I'm nervous when Viraj comes to the house and picks me up for the party. Last chance to change my mind and say that his present is a joint gift. But he sees the finished project for only a couple minutes before my mom and I wrap it in a gift bag. He's impressed, thinks it's beautiful and says that she'll love it. I'm still worried about the design, I know everyone gets things with elephants on it for Triya, but he thinks it's perfect.

"This one is from Jessie," Triya silently reads the card before smiling at me. What I wrote was as carefully considered as my project. I smile back and awkwardly look at the floor for a minute as she starts unwrapping my gift. Viraj puts his arm around my waist, trying to help make me feel more confident. The tissue paper is scattered on the floor when I look back up, and Triya's holding the pillow on her lap. She turns it right side up and stares at it for a minute before holding it out for everyone to see. I'm nervous about my present, homemade, imperfect and elephant-themed as it is inspected.

"Jess? Did you do this yourself?" I give her a shy smile and nod as she hugs it to her chest. "It's beautiful. How long did this take you?" I brush it off and make comments about how it wasn't difficult and that it was more fun than work. Triya keeps her new pillow next to her on the couch as she opens the remaining presents. Viraj hugs me a little tighter and smiles. He knows I'm lying; he knows the work that went into that little patch of embroidery. He also knows how happy it made me to create something for someone else to enjoy and that the smile on Triya's face has made it all worthwhile.

"I'm proud of you," he whispers. I smile again and look around the room full of his friends. A couple of them give me a thumbs up when they catch my eye. Panav even mouths "wow" and points at the pillow. I giggle and feel my cheeks turn pink.

"This one is from Nidra," Triya says as she opens another card. I look over to Nidra and remember that her birthday is in about a month. Suddenly, I have a new project idea. I remember there's some leftover black fabric from a Halloween costume waiting for a purpose at the bottom of the closet. I'm glad my mom and I held onto it.