When I saw her last, one year ago this month, she mentioned she had been working on my wedding towel. Embroidering it by hand, painstakingly, while her eyes held up. But I don’t know, she shrugged, if you’re getting married any time soon.
“Well,” I asked her, “is the towel finished?”
No, she said. I’m still working on it.
“So am I,” was my reply. And she laughed.
I got word two days ago — she’s finished. Her eyes are failing, but the towel is done, embroidered, pressed, and ready for me to collect from her mountain-top-weathered hands.