Saturday, August 1, 2009

Crazy Quilt


I still call her Mamma. She lets me.
Still.
Even though.
In spite of.
Just because, and for my part, I am grateful.
Now.
Not always, but now.
I am grateful.

We.
She and I.
We have spent years, a lifetime, my lifetime, weaving spider web thin threads of time into fabric.
This fabric we patched together is a crazy quilt. A mother’s story. A daughter’s story.
It is our story.
The fibers are us.

Sometimes, the strands we gathered were bright, shiny gold bits, intense, reflective, hot to the touch.
Other times, they were no more than scraps of discarded twine, salvaged from dusty corners, blown clean with collective breath, threaded through bent needles.
Sometimes, the stitches were work, done up close, with hunched shoulders, through squinted eyes.
Other times, it was effortless.

It is our story.

We have created a patchwork of life, together, with the help of other mothers and other daughters.
The ones that came before we were us.
The ones that came after. When we, became all of us.

We.
She and I, continue to leave our mark on this tapestry.
It will go on this crazy quilt.
Long after we become them, and they become us.

There comes a time when you can take the quilt out, shake it in daylight,
admire its beauty, wrap yourself in it, and be grateful.

I am grateful.

Happy Birthday Mamma.
T.

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