Tattered scraps of out dated patterns

she used on an old quilting rack

my father made from scraps of wood.

How fitting that her scraps of cloth would

become a Quilt of love

Sewn by hand

each stitch precise

each patch cut

and chosen the pattern

followed exact

Many times did she curse

as the blood dripped from the

small puncture

the needle had made.

Wiping it off

Hoping it wouldn’t stain

She would continue.

It took her many years to

complete

After all she was a working mother

Long nights she stayed up late

bent over the quilting rack

fingers cut and swollen after eight

hours on the machine assembly line

Still she stitched.

Perhaps it would never win any

contests, in the county fair

but in my eyes it was the most

beautiful creation

a magical pattern of love and warmth

to this child’s eyes

Now the quilt tattered, ripped and stained

still never fails to give me

warmth.

I still proudly display the battered pieces

held together with unskilled stitching,

next to the beautiful perfection she created

My mother was seldom happy

Kindness was never her strong point

Her words of love echoed empty

Yet with one gift of her creation

she told me more with her tattered scraps

then she ever said with words.