There is a piece of blue shirt fabric I keep moving from one possible place in a quilt to another. It belonged to Harold, and every position seems either too prominent or not prominent enough. This is supposed to be an ordinary quilt for the house, not another memorial project. The cloth is sound. He wore shirts, shirts wear out, what remains gets used. I can state all that plainly and still sit here arranging the same scrap for twenty minutes. I put it back in the bag this afternoon and chose a different blue. No decision has been made about the shirt. I have plenty of other pieces and am not obliged to settle everything before tea.

The sun reached my sewing chair before breakfast was cleared. I sat with the quilt over my knees and stayed there longer than I intended, not sewing yet, just getting warm. The house is heated adequately. My daughter will wish that entered in the record. It is still different when the warmth comes through the window and settles on the backs of my hands. I can feel the cloth better after that, the small seam that needs flattening before the next piece goes on. Threading the needle took two tries. The sewing itself went well. By the time the sun moved, I had finished a whole row and missed whatever argument was taking place on the television.

The great-granddaughter sent a picture of her latest patchwork. One corner was wrong and she had already circled it before sending it to me. I wished, quite suddenly, that she were here at the table, wrong corner and all. A picture is a good thing to receive, but I wanted to see the expression she makes when she decides a seam is not worth unpicking. I know that expression. I wrote that the colours pleased me and asked whether she liked it herself. Then I showed the picture to my daughter, who had already seen it. I showed her again at supper. Considerable pleasure in a small, crooked square, and no particular need to conceal it.