In the last weeks of her life, my mother slept in a hospital bed in the parlour of my parents house. On my last visit home before her death I noticed in the bed a channel of various sized cushions that formed an outline of her tiny body. She would rise from these cushions when she felt strong enough and fold herself back into them when she needed to rest. As the medications failed, these cushions were the only things that afforded her any physical comfort from the excruciating pain of the disease that took her life. comfort is a series of 66 hand-woven cushions representing the comfort my mother sought, but enjoyed very little of, at the end of her life.