I’ve been inspired by my aunt to write lyrics about my grandmother. Heavy with the discipline, heavier with love. She’d stay up all nite making sure all the girls had Easter dresses to wear. Every grandchild had a blanket made for them. The hum of the singer, the thread in the evening. At the time it felt as ordinary as breathing. Years later I would spend hours on a single drawing and finally understand what she’d been giving away. I lost mine as a teen and regret it fully. The carelessness of youth juxtaposed with the meticulous care of old age. While my grandmother was spending weeks measuring, cutting, and stitching my specific warmth, I might have been distracted, outgrowing things, and moving away. The regret isn’t just about losing the object; it’s about the realization that I can’t thank the hands that made it anymore.
She had a heart full of Jesus and a hand made of steel,
Taught us how to bow our heads before every meal,
She’d make you pick a switch out in the yard,
Simple lessons that hit us real hard.
Walking down the steps staring at your shoes,
Hoping for a branch you wouldn’t have to use,
She never spared the rod and never spared love,
Rooted in the faith she carried from above.
A casual prompt for a pastry doodle turned into fan art. A request for a croissant makes me feel like making it extra special. Feels like Loid needs to be there. Loid in the kitchen, a coat on the chair. The smell of baking, peace in the air. My inbox is filling with requests for the sweet, where fictional worlds and real worlds meet. Nobody asked for Loid, but he knows when he’s needed. Nobody asked for the extra details. My grandmother wasn’t asked to make Easter dresses extraordinary. She made them extraordinary anyway. Generosity often arrives as unnecessary detail.
More requests for yuri and also fur-babies come in. They’re asking for Yuri, they’re asking for fluff, but it’s the four-legged muses that anchor. The click of the stylus, my thread in the evening. Some people ask for characters they love. Others ask for companions they’ve loved. Another blanket sent out into the world. Every time I finish a commission for someone else—giving them an object that will outlast a loved one—I am paying back the debt of the blanket I lost. I am making sure someone else’s blanket doesn’t vanish.
Who says no to puppers? Not me! It is special, like doing a piece on my own family. The wag of a tail, a sketch of a companion that never will fail. Ink on the screen, a portrait of family, home by design. Fictional characters arrive with reference sheets. Dogs arrive with stories. Cats arrive with legends.
The needle dances over the fabric, mimicking the rhythm of a shared silence. Each precise seam is a tiny, repeated breath held for someone miles away. Someone creating something tangible that says, “I thought about you when you weren’t there.” The portrait is finished, but a portrait doesn’t keep anyone from leaving. Neither does a blanket, but both are proof that somebody cared enough to make something last. The hum has faded. The thread continues.
