embroidered bird

4

After 4 years of knitting, stitching and stuffing I finally finished my Beekeeper’s Quilt! I love it so much and am really proud of what I’ve made!

I’ve knitted so many memories into this blanket. There are numerous puffs made from the leftover yarn from other projects and every time I see them I remember that I made a pair of socks or a beloved jumper out of that yarn. There’s one forest green hexi which is made from one of  the first skeins I ever dyed, which I had to knit really tightly because I had barely enough yarn. I put so much time into embroidering little birds and flowers onto puffs and can see how far I’ve come from the first one (some simple blue flowers which came with the pattern) to the later ones which I designed myself and put so much effort and skill into.

At several points I wondered if it would ever get put together. There was one time I started tying it together then gave up and undid all my work, putting the puffs back in their bags.

In the last few months I have been making a huge effort to get this quilt done. Slowly but surely it has been coming together (and taking up an increasing amount of space in the living room).

Now it’s done and gets to do what I made it for - looking pretty in my bedroom and keeping my feet warm!

Sansa has always had fine needlework.  Ever since she was a little girl and her mother and Mistress Mordane (a spinster, the poor dear) had cooed over her embroidery.  She’d always been good at sewing.

She reminds herself of that as she stitches.  This is just the same as that.  A precise stitch, that brings two together as one.  A good bit more useful than embroidered birds and flowers on her handkerchiefs.  Though she does still sew them there.  It calms her, after the tables.

Sansa wonders if Robb died on a table like this after Antietam.  She hopes not.  She hopes he died more peacefully.  She hopes it was quick, that it wasn’t a bayonet through his gut, or a leg blasted off and him bleeding until he was dead before some nurse came and found him.  She hopes it wasn’t rotting flesh, and fear, and pain, and the smell of blood and pus and innards, oozing everywhere.  She hopes it isn’t like this.

She knows Robb had been injured before the battle.  She knows he’d fallen in love with one of his nurses who’d helped stitch him up, and they’d gotten married quick.  Sansa was old enough to guess what that had meant.  

Sansa wouldn’t do that, though.  She wouldn’t fall in love with one of the boys, stretched out on the table, not so much in blue as in brown while their blood dried and caked on their heavy Union coats.  She wouldn’t fall in love with them, but she would tend to them as someone who loved them would.  She would clean their sweat and blood away with a damp cloth, she would sing them hymns as if they were in church, and she would stitch their flesh back together with neat, precise stitches and thread of blue, or white.