There's this felt stocking that was made back in the toddler days.
Reminds me of the joy of creation. Away from the internet and in the spirit.
Made the mistake of sealing the top, then I'd done it to fit it on the bottom, instructions were repeated like a broken record as I happened to be made to sew. Within a plastic chair sitting without my brain unable to make sense of anything. Was that a bauble?
This was not like that sewing machine, covered in sewing stickers, this was a sewing needle.
What was made with pattern recognition, one that is with a mother and her child. It was too sharp, I complained, as I got a mild puncture. So this had to be washed. Eventually it was tied up and treated like as an ornament. There were candy hearts within it once, and the cheer of that brought it towards somewhere redundant. All the naive conceptions of not understanding the news was something.
In these moments of conception, it was merely a nice thing that could be given to others. It felt real with my healed hands. The felt forgave me as with the quick recovery.
Now I barely remember this as it hangs on the Christmas tree, a family album memento it was. Could of hidden in it through all these troubles now, yet no.