I started a hand-worked quilt in March and, best assessment, it will be ready to put together and quilt by March next year. I only work on it at night when Gordy and I and all the dogs are settled into our evenings of TV watching — usually British murder mysteries. The work is slow but rewarding as it emerges; tiny details, little touches to make it mine. The project is called “Women’s Work” and oh, how that phrase catches me. I have not done the most significant of women’s work — that is, to have and raise children, but still, I feel described. So much of what matters to me, especially as I age, is the hidden work, typically ascribed to women; the work of caring. I need a support group for this — how to care in moderation. It doesn’t seem possible. One rescue dog, means you can do two, and why not three, and after that, what is the point of having a limit? Caring is a door impossible to close because of all the damn need in this world. The deeper you go, the deeper you go. It makes me feel small so I soothe myself by stitching tiny curls for hair and tight buttons for flowers, putting order into an imaginary world where caring matters and makes everything alright.