patchwork

I'm extremely fond of quilts. Particularly quilts with frayed edges and an arbitrary use of color and patterns. I like them to be cotton. Fairly lightweight, since I live in such a warm climate. I like them to be approachable- warm colors, the kind that absorb hot chocolate stains or tears. When I was very young my mother made a quilt for me. I took it everywhere, used it on every bed, wouldn't sleep without it.

Once I set it on fire. It was an accident, of course. I was in the top bunk of my bed, huddled under the quilt, trying desperately to hide the fact that my pink clip-on lamp was shedding a small amount of creamy yellow light on yet another Nancy Drew novel. I'm not sure if I was so absorbed in the mystery that I didn't notice the heat, or (more likely) I drifted off for a minute or two of sleep. The next morning my quilt had a small but noticeable singed patch. I don't remember flames, but I remember the black edges of the burned place. Mom sewed a square of fabric over the burn; it was nearly invisible unless you looked for it. I stopped carrying my quilt everywhere when the edges started to tear. I couldn't bear the thought of wearing it into pieces, so I folded it gently and put it into the wooden chest at the end of my bed. It stays there now, with my diplomas and dolls and love letters.

When I was in high school, my grandparents gave me a quilt with tulips on it. They told me that it had been my favorite when I visited them for summer vacation as a child. I didn't remember the quilt clearly, but I loved it on sight. It's been on my bed, off and on, ever since. It was the last gift my grandmother gave me before she passed away unexpectedly. I think of her every spring when I put it on my bed to welcome back the sun after winter's darkness.

When I visit my parents' house now, I usually borrow a terribly faded quilt with pink edging. It has patches of nearly every color, but I like the pieces of black and white polka dots the best. It's been used and cleaned so many times that it has threadbare areas and the same washed effect as sun-bleached blue jeans. It's comfortable.

I like bedspreads. I like comforters, duvets, fleece blankets, and simple sheets. After all, I like sleep. But I find a warmth in quilts that isn't available in other bedding. Quilts are nurturing, simple, creative, and honest. They feel genuine and lasting in a world of shiny, new, temporary items.

They remind me that being perfect is less important than being loved. They remind me that unmatched fabrics can make a beautiful piece of art. They remind me that some things get better with age. They remind me that when something precious is burned, it's possible to patch over the blackness and go on.

People are patchwork, too, of course. And I have a lot of patches. But apparently you still love me despite the uneven stitching.

Thank you for the pieces you've added to my life.