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.