I never really considered my mom artistic. My dad was the artist. He loved to take pictures. Before that, he painted. Spent a year in Paris after college in fact, living in Montmartre and painting. His old oils were stowed like treasure under the basement stairs. He could draw too, and was fairly good at it even when he had Parkinson’s Disease. I started drawing early and sort of assumed I got my desire and modicum of talent from my dad. Truth be told, though, he didn’t actually do that much with his talent. A few paintings and drawings, but there wasn’t a whole heck of a lot (besides the photos he’d taken) left behind of his actual handiwork when he died in 2002.

And I never really considered my mom artistic. I suppose because she did stuff like needlepoint, knitting, and I think even macramé. (It was after all the seventies.) But she didn’t do “Art.” Then recently I started taking a closer look at the detailed work on this pillow she made in 1976, and by Jove, it’s beautiful. It shows dedication, concentration and lovely, subtle color choices. Each little square is like it’s own masterpiece. This sucker is almost 40 years old and except for three minor flaws it’s still holding up well. Tight, careful construction. Man, it’s gorgeous.

I look at this and I think of her, sitting on the couch, or at the beach, or in her chair in the den watching the 10 o’clock news with her daily cold beer (the only time I think she ever drank a beer was watching the 10 o’clock news), quietly working on these crafts of hers. And they were all so beautiful, too. Pillows, wall hangings, cable knit sweaters. She put care and concentration into her work. Love, even.

She was a kind, sensitive, intelligent person. I miss her so much right now just writing this. She only got to express her “artistic” self with things like these crafts and cooking and gardening, but what she did was beautiful. I sometimes wish she’d have been out there, working. I wonder what she would have done. But then I wouldn’t have gotten to spend so much time with her as a kid—in the garden, at the beach, watching TV, hanging out.

It was mom all along. Mom passed on my artistic inclinations, or at least the dedication. Dad surely had an influence, but he didn’t really do much with his artistic talents. Well, he was busy earning a living. Feeding us and paying the mortgage. There was that. But when I look at this pillow, and the dedication, time, care and concentration that went into it, it’s Mom I want to live up to.