On a brisk October afternoon some years ago, my 90-year-old mother-in-law, Margaret, returned to us after a brief stay in a convalescent home. It was, after all, quite unexpected. The pneumonia that beset her was just the most recent incident in a yearlong roller coaster ride of ill health. Something about turning 90, she seemed to think, adding in her quiet way, “Dad only lived to 89, you know.” Margaret sure knew how to drop a bomb that was loaded with feeling and meaning.

That year of frailty, and the unpredictability that arrived in its wake, had taken its toll on my husband and me. Burning the candle at both ends, we were weary. Once Margaret was admitted, we began the process of rearranging the details of our everyday life. A dogwalker for our precious papillon, Madam Butterfly, and two placemats at dinner, instead of three. The reminder to “lock the doors on the way out, Grandma’s not here.” And so on.

With the realization that she might live out her days elsewhere, our actions became more “final.” Yes, Margaret would always be a part of our family, but the personal effects that say, “I belong here” would move out. In time, we knew that we’d convert her large bedroom into a study and sitting room – ushering in a new phase in which we would occupy the antique Victorian house by ourselves. Just us. 

And then there were the linens…

Grandma’s room was a virtual warehouse of vintage linens and aprons whose fine detailing and delicate embroidery reflected a life lived in an entirely different time and place. Because her stash was always “for good,” neither our daily lives nor the celebrations the year bestows were ever “good enough.” And so the linens remained in the drawers of an old dresser, off limits to younger hands. My husband encouraged me to seize the moment, claim the bounty and live in the wild and crazy notion that every day is good enough. After some hesitation, I immersed myself in the tactile gratification of prohibited bounty.  

But, the pace of my road warrior work life interfered. There just wasn’t enough time. I told myself that I would get back to that pile before long. Wash it, starch and press it, love it and put it to good use in all of our good days ahead.

Or so I thought.

Margaret wasn’t back at home more than a few days when, in her matter-of-fact manner, she announced that she’d put her aprons back in the drawers. In a flash I realized that I’d left that project midstream and had never gotten back to claiming my would-be bounty. Chagrined and sheepish, I began to mutter an apology, which fell on deaf but kind ears. “Those aprons are pretty special, you know. All those funerals and bake sales and church fairs, so much time in the kitchen. But, many hands make light work, you know.” And off she went.

“You know.”

But, did I? I stood for a long while in that moment. Looking back, I believe that Margaret trusted that one day, I would.  

Whatever pangs of guilt I had felt eventually dissipated, allowing me to savor the sweet lesson of just what is “good enough.” It’s quite good enough to know that an old woman’s cherished memory of time well spent, hands laboring in love is life’s real bounty. When Margaret passed at 92, I eventually claimed those linens, determined to labor in love with them – just as she had.