Quilted Stories

A poem about my grandma, and quilting. I have such great memories of her.

Quilted Stories

In the bedroom we converted from our garage,

she surrounded herself with scraps of fabric,

uneven squares of calico poking out of boxes

and ragged strips of muslin prints

falling out of plastic grocery bags.

To my untrained eye, her wrinkled hands

chose pieces entirely at random--stripes,

miniature tulips, polka dots. Each piece

had a purpose, a part, and in between

her selections, she told me her mother

showed her the patterns, the different fabrics,

the right way to thread and hold the needle.

She never needed a thimble, for the pads

of her fingers grew thickened and roughened

by years of shucking corn, canning fruit,

and milking cows. These pieces will tell a story,

she told me, her voice proud as she pulled down

the old patterns from her shelves, patterns

made on a farm in Richland, Missouri:

Cherokee Rose, Little Dutch Girl, Flower Basket.

I loved watching her trim the colored material

into even shapes, love watching her graft

those shapes together with the practiced

ease time provided. Her quilts became

maps, roads of stripes cutting through

fields of polka dots and flowers. She tried

to teach me how to quilt, how to make

my own maps, but my hands proved

too large, my fingers too clumsy. I never

found myself able to hold the needle

the same way, and the end of the thread

frayed every time I poked it through the eye.

I always envied her cartography, the beauty

that keeps me warm and adorns

my bed. The ones I don’t use are packed away

in her old cedar chest,

and every once in a while I open it,

gather the blankets she made in my arms.

The smells of cedar and cigarette smoke

linger in them still, and I unfold each of them,

the colors as bright and vivid as the day

she selected those pieces, those parts.

These pieces will tell a story, and every story

came to its end. I can only repeat the ones

she already made, already told.

Author's Note

I have not workshopped this poem in my creative writing course, but I cannot wait to. :) Any feedback is appreciated!