October 16, 2018:

Near the end she's gaunt, as though her cheeks were collapsing inward. Her eyes are fixed, there's no smile.

Frail. Holding the heavy baby, in house dress with furry slippers. Or at the table with family, in a wheelchair, heavy quilt over her legs.

Today I have that very quilt. It was in my mother's belongings when she passed. It's sad to think that when I'm gone it'll finally die with me. There'll be no-one to understand it or value it. Into the nearest landfill, most likely. Preserved only in this photo, around the legs of the lovely woman who made it by hand more than half a century ago.