I wrote the text for The Tipping Point after the passing of my father and while I was dealing with my mother’s debilitating dementia. These two parental events made me, an only child, realize that I was the last one standing of our little family. Suddenly, the future loomed forboding, with the loss of my two anchoring people. And, this felt true despite the new family members and friends I had acquired since leaving home. I embroidered the text on a worn piece of linen from an old tablecloth with a faded color of thread. Sewing the letters was a contemplative, meditative act. In a foretelling way, the text told of its end, its hanging with metal and concrete, before it was even complete. These heavy materials support and burden the embroidered linen. Steel angle iron holds its bent rod, and a cylinder of concrete pulls at its hemming.