I smiled.
“Always.”
She pointed toward the patch.
“Do you ever wish I'd made a new one?”
I stared.
“What do you mean?”
She looked uncertain.
“It's old.”
I nodded.
“Very.”
“And the stitching isn't perfect.”
I smiled.
“No.”
She looked down.
“Maybe I could make you a better one.”
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
Then I sat beside her.
“Rosie, do you know why I love this patch?”
She looked toward it.
“Because Mom made it?”
I nodded.
“That's part of it.”
She waited.
I continued.
“Your mom made it when she was little. She worked hard on it. And she wasn't afraid to give me something that wasn't perfect.”
Rosie nodded.
I touched the red stitch.
“Then years later, you brought it back.”
Her eyes lifted.
I smiled.
“So every crooked line reminds me of both of you.”
For several seconds, she remained quiet.
Then she touched the patch gently.
“You wouldn't change it?”
I shook my head.
“Not one stitch.”
Her face softened.
Then she smiled.
“Okay.”
For a moment, we sat quietly.
Then she asked.
“Can I still sew you something else?”
I laughed.
“Absolutely.”
Her eyes brightened.
“What?”
I pretended to think.
“How about something for the inside of the vest?”
Rosie considered.
“Like a secret?”
I smiled.
“Exactly.”
She grinned.
Then looked toward Evelyn.
“Grandma! I need my sewing tin!”
Evelyn laughed.
“Not tonight, sweetheart.”
Rosie frowned.
“But Grandpa needs another patch.”
The older woman smiled.
“He can wait until tomorrow.”
I nodded.
“I've waited this long.”
Rosie considered.
Then smiled.
“Okay.”
She took another bite of pancake.
For a moment, everything seemed ordinary.
And after so many years of loss, I discovered that ordinary was something worth being grateful for.
Rosie finished the second patch three weeks later.
She didn't show it to me while she was working.
Every time I entered the room, she covered the sewing tin with a towel and told me to go away.
Evelyn thought it was hilarious.
I pretended to be offended.
“You're kicking your own grandfather out of the room?”
Rosie nodded.
“Yes.”
“After everything I've done for you?”
She grinned.
“Especially after that.”
I laughed.
Then walked away.
The mystery continued until a Sunday afternoon when Rosie arrived at my workshop carrying a small yellow envelope.
She had written my name across the front in careful blue letters.
GRANDPA RAYMOND.
I smiled.
“What's this?”
“A present.”
“Is it my birthday?”
“No.”
“Christmas?”
“No.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Then what's the occasion?”
Rosie thought for a moment.
Then shrugged.
“Because I wanted to.”
I took the envelope.
Inside was a small square of dark-blue fabric.