The morning chill came through an open window. The morning had begun its transformation from black to variations of dark blues to lighter hues outlining night’s black shadows. It had just passed…the morning ritual. The magical moment of silence in which all of the world — right before the sun’s rays lightens the sky — seems to hush in stillness. Then in the distance one songbird followed by another as if a congregation’s “Amen.”
My mother came to visit. I may have called her as I, with a cup of steaming tea, looked up at the antique framed cross stitch hanging on the dining room wall.
It was during one of those rare visits to her home in which she shared a beautiful piece of counted cross stitch. I saw the delight in her face as she told me it was a gift…a gift of gratitude to someone unknown to me…a stranger. Aged old jealously rose unbidden and formed a barrier between mother and daughter.
And then, “Would you like one?”
“Yes! Please let me frame it.”
Within an antique framed cross stitch…a magical moment. An exchange of love and validation.