Now I’m fishing around in my scrap bucket (aka garbage pail)  for the good stuff.  I reached down to the bottom, churning it up.  Like those Italian ices  in the wax cups, with all the sugar at the bottom, I know there’s some colorful scraps under the left overs from the  Quilt for a Good Man.  Pinks reds and flowered prints.

It’s no accident that  I’m  listening to The Blues on Pandora, every song about a broken heart.

I was worried it would feel like factory work, making so many of the same potholders, but they’re not the same.  Each one is so different. And every time I lay down the scraps on a piece of fabric it’s like the first time.  Holding the scraps together with my stitches, shaping the heart with my scissors, how can it not be cathartic.

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