Several weeks ago I wrote a hub about my Husband Quilt. It became a hubnugget of which I felt very humble, but it turned into something bigger. It turned into something that has given me a little self-worth.

In my widow's group one night, I was asked how I was dealing with my grief and the one difference that held me apart from the others there; the fact that for 99% of the time I am utterly alone with no car and no job at the moment, going deeper into debt. I spoke about my husband quilt, my writing, and the little bit of light that shined on me for one moment with being granted the privilege of having that particular hub selected as a hubnugget. After the meeting, a woman came up to me and asked if I would make a quilt for her. I said of course and we negotiated on a fee.

When she came over and saw my small apartment filled with fabric and quilts I have made, things I'd been sewing to remind me of my husband, and actually saw and touched my own Husband Quilt, she cried. She wanted three quilts. One for her mother-in-law and one for each of her two children. She's thinking about one for herself.

I brought her finished quilt top to my widow's group, her quilt is actually now finished, the other widow's were stunned, I guess is the word, of how the quilt top looked. They hadn't realized what someone could do with clothing. I got another order for two more quilts.

I have since put up a website that shows my Memory Quilts I'm calling them now, for others to see. I update it as I finish a quilt, making sure nothing gives away the embroidered personalization's I am asked to put on the quilts.

Since that site has gone up I have one woman in Canada who has ordered three quilts and we are coordinating her mailing her husband's clothing down and what clothes are for her, and which for her two sons. Two more women have made queries.

Everyone in the widow's group is happy for me. I'm a little happy for myself as well. I like the comfort the money gives me. It is helping enormously. But I also like the warm feeling, a feeling that makes me want to look down at the floor though, when these women see their quilts.  they talk to me about their husband's and then look to me to give them this tangible solace. I feel humble. I feel not really worthy yet it is a skill that I can offer up to them that I can see really helps them.

One woman said knowing that I was going to be making her a quilt from her husband's clothes was the best feeling she'd had in a long time. I didn't know what to say other than this: "I understand the feeling. Not having to do anything with his clothes, knowing that you will forever be able to keep them in some form, has brought me a kind of peace. I know what you're going through and I'm glad I am able to do this for you."

Grief is a terrible thing. Having someone die, either through illness or in a sudden, horrible moment, alters your life. You are truly never the same. It's a cruel but simple fact. The more you try to hold onto that person, the less you have to hold onto. People in the group, both men and women, talk of repeatedly playing a tape over and over to hear their deceased loved one's voice, to better remember it, because time is slowly numbing it in their minds. I myself have built little shrines all over my tiny apartment. I have photos of my husband as an ever-changing wallpaper background. Is this normal? I don't care. Is this healthy? I don't care.

I honestly really don't care. I love him. I'm not going to get better faster by shoving all my memories of him in a closet or getting rid of everything. For me, I need these shrines. I need this evidence of him in my apartment. He never lived here with me. I moved immediately after his funeral to live close to my daughter. It was decided around me during that shock/fog/denial week between his sudden death and the funeral. My children were not going to leave me alone in New England. My poor daughter knocks herself out between work and planning her wedding (of which I'm making most everything) to help me and be there for me. And as her mother and being of sound mind and finally being over that wonderful phase during the first couple of months (I never knew how wonderful and protective that shock/fog/denial phase was until it passed into active deep grief), I do not let her rush over to see me everyday. I tell her I'm busy with the quilts.

But he's gone.  My husband whom I loved more than I ever thought I could love a man has died and I am alone.  I honestly, seriously, really don't care what anyone thinks about how I'm dealing with it.  It is none of their business that I see his photo everywhere every minute of every day.  It is not their concern that I talk to him a lot, tell him things I'm thinking like I used to do. No one is here to tell me I'm bats in the belfry crazy. But I'm not crazy.  I'm simply trying to hold onto him.  My thoughts and memories of him are all I can have.

We all live our lives and when they end we leave a little bit of ourselves behind. Some leave money. Others leave their life's work however humble that is. My husband left his career in the Marine Corps, his years spent as a Scoutmaster, and his years with me, saving me, teaching me that I'm not some God-awful abomination that was put here to test people's sensibilities. He left love behind and a very empty space beside me. And his clothes.

When I die I am going to leave behind my lonely life and Memory Quilts for the grieving. Lots and lots of Memory Quilts. As many as I can make.