I seem to have inherited a quilt. A large one. Hand-stitched. A pattern representing something, I can no longer remember, but I had once known.
I vaguely recall seeing thus quilt when I was very young. It was on some bed in a strange house. A house filled with people who pinched my cheeks, ruffled my hair and gave me small candies. These were my mother’s people. Cousins of hers I think. At any rate as a young girl we went for a visit. When it was nap time I was taken to the strange bedroom and the quilt was covered with some sheets to protect it from a sleeping little girl.
And now it seems I’ve inherited it. Far all I know I could have been enamoured with it when I was young. It came by way of a lawyer’s office. Lovingly packaged up for its trip. I signed some papers and the box was given to me. When I got home and I opened the box, the quilt was nestled into a nice, comforting shape.
Carefully I pulled it out and shook out the wrinkles and folds. I mar led at the work, the derail, the skill that went into making this amazing quilt. How many hours were spent cutting and placing those little patches of fabric just so? How many times did the maker price her finger or thumb?
The gift I received isn’t just the quilt. It’s the thread that holds connections, families and friends together. It is the connection across generations, countries and technology. It is a bit of fabric that has stories to tell if only I understood the language.
It seems that with this quilt I inherited, I also got back the memory of the quilt and the visit. Both of which now seem so utterly innocent and priceless.