White roses made of embroidery thread, touched at the edges with the most delicate layers of
mauve pink and bright red. Such artistry must be rare, perhaps a hobby of English ladies from
the past, but the emblazoned threads that created the flowers here have heart, substance, and
texture. As I run my fingertips over the leaves leading to the roses, I can feel the light in their
gold and emerald tips. They flutter in the breeze and sing to me. Another rose with pink light
flies from a corner of this silky table top cover, and another alights from the opposite side,
displaying true rose aromas that I can almost taste.

My mother loved roses; she grew these thorny plants with the irony of their deep scarlet
blossoms every spring. She nurtured them, adored them, bragged on them, and loved them. I
never considered my mother to be an artist who carefully tended and cultured her
talent—maybe because she yelled at me a lot and never showed such attention or patience to
me. I don’t recall hugs or warmth from my mother—just chores and yelling. Lots of yelling. Yet,
my mother was an artist who sought something through it. She embroidered delicate petals
onto a piece of silk, a tabletop she created, a memory of her she wanted me to have. She was
quite intentional about how this piece of flowered art would speak to me later, after she was
gone. And it is. It’s talking now.

Perhaps the love she could muster found itself in those lines of pink and scarlet thread, as she
moved her needle in and out of the empty, gauzy fabric of the table cover. Perhaps she left her
love there in the images her art created, the only place she could enable love. Maybe the time
and energy that consumed her to create this and other works of embroidery art is where she
displayed her patience in a place where it wouldn’t be violated or unappreciated. I can imagine
her completing this work of embroidery, and hugging it to her, proud of this form of self-
expression and of her ability to complete such delicate art, often given as gifts to others. I hold
it now, encompassed with the wonder of this anomalous talent of a mother who lived in
shadows, seemingly separate from love. And I’m filled with awe in this moment, that against all
odds, she used art to express her love through the push and pull of embroidery thread.

–Dixie K. Keyes
May, 2020