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  • There are certain people in my life that I don't necessarily have to live with, next door to, or even in the same state or the same continent to think of everyday.

    My husband thinks this is weird.

    He'll come home from work and will find me, hunched over a laptop, designing/listening/recording/writing.

    Fighting it out with myself.

    Thinking about the past. Thinking about the future.

    He'll ask me "what's this design for?" or "what's the song about?"

    "Who are you mailing that to?"

    The smallest of things will remind me of you. And I will put them in my pocket while I'm out on my walk, to add to the collection of things that I will eventually mail to you.

    I love making things for people that I love.

    It started last summer when we made a quilt. I made a bluebird.

    Now, I make things, seemingly all the time.

    He comes home and finds me, stitching together something - maybe it will be a pillow for your new house.
    Maybe I will mail it to you this year. Maybe it will sit in the closet for another few years, until it is ready.

    Generally, he just asks me to clean up my mess after I'm done.
    Or keep it all confined to one room, opposed to strewn around the house.
    I tell him, "I can't work like that - I need the big room, because if I am confined to the small room, I'll feel like I'm getting shut in. Plus, the stereo is in the big room - and I might get the urge to listen to something while I'm working."

    I realize that this infringes on his life. I realize when I ask him to go away or leave me alone for a while, he didn't do anything wrong, but feels like maybe he did.

    He wonders if I am making things for them, or for me.

    Sometimes, I wonder the same.

    Sometimes, I'm not sure who I'm making it for, because I am so in the process of making it. But, sometimes, I think, "sing this part like you would if you were singing it face to face," to your best of friends who you can tell anything. And even if it is bad, or the lyrics aren't perfect, you guys can figure it out together, or you'll see the beauty in it and even like it's imperfection.

    Mostly, I think I'm making it because I know you'll like it. I know you'll get it. I know you'll cry at the same part of the book where I sobbed hysterically. I know you'll get the same joy from it. And I want you to experience it, to love it, to add another stitch into the fabric.

    Sometimes he wonders why I don't make things for him.

    I don't usually, because I don't think he'll get it. He'll think it's "nice" but won't cherish it in the way I know that you would. We don't have metaphors. We talk about real things, mostly.

    Maybe it doesn't make sense to him.

    I can't convey it any other way. There is no real context to put it in. It's something in the air. It's the moment of silence before the orchestra comes in, at the best part of the song. It's breath held in anticipation.

    I'll tell him, "Wait. Don't speak. The best part of the song is coming up." and if he speaks, gets bored waiting, I get frustrated, turn the stereo off like a small child. Tell him, "Never-mind. It didn't matter anyway."

    And I know that you wouldn't do that. You'd lie on the floor and cry. You'd sing at the top of your lungs.

    He thinks we are in love.

    We are, I tell him.

    We are in love.
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