‘By the end I started to feel like I was holding another persons’ hand – my partners’ – a holding, a caress, comfort, being held. It took the whole time to get there. To be in touch…’
My mother offers her hands again…we stitch, she tells me it is not necessary to talk…I look at the photograph, I have a tangible, physical sense of this person in a place, a memory- as I stitch I re- member. Something is made- an assemblage of identities, entities- threaded into each other. The occasional tangle, dropped stitch are all a part of this thing we make- the gloves- echo- double-up.