Unfinished Symphonies

This basket is sitting in her sewing room. 

My niece and I both noticed it straight away. I'm sure others did, too. In fact, I went back to look at it a couple days after I took this picture and the needles were hidden. I tried to put them back, just this way. Mama never got too fancy with her afghans. I don't know that the patterns ever varied one iota. 

I always meant to get her to show me how to do this.

I'm not sure I could finish this one even if I knew how.

Mama was working on this blouse, hoping that it would be something that all the adult women in the family might wear as an instant heirloom if they had need of it. I wasn't entirely clear about how that would work, but I suspect she was just looking for a reason to spend time fussing over it because it gave her pleasure. As with the afghan, I'm not sure that even if I could take on the job of finishing it that I would.

It's entirely possible that neither of these projects would have ever been finished anyway. Something deep down tells me she was just doing it to pass time, and to remind herself of all the hours she used to spend sewing, and smocking, and knitting, when her fingers didn't hurt and her eyes wouldn't give out on her.

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Mama was always an Artist of the Unfinished, though. 

In her day she was an accomplished pianist, but by the time I came along the most any of us ever heard her play were the first 10 - 15 measures of things like Claire du Lune. I honestly cannot remember ever hearing her play anything at all the whole way through. It became part of the soundtrack of my life, all the unfinished songs. 

So, while taking note of the afghan and the blouse initially caused me to shed a tear, when I remembered how beautiful the unfinished music always was -- how complete the "unfinished" life truly is-- I couldn't help but smile a little.