I recently watched the Netflix documentary “The Quilters,” about a group of inmates in prison who sew beautiful personalized quilts for orphaned children. It reminded me of this article I wrote about a special quilt and how comforting a quilt can be.
I lay under the quilt my mothers have made. The pattern is a simple one, and the colors are muted from the many washings it has seen over almost a century – from black wash tubs over a wood fire in the back yard to electric washing machines.
It was my grandmother’s pride and joy because it was one of a pair that her mother and friends had made as part of her meager wedding dowry. One went to her twin sister and the other came to her. I slept under this same quilt in my grandmother’s bed as a child. The warmth of the quilt and the warmth of my grandmother’s body comforted me through cold nights.
This quilt came to my mother when my grand died. My mother bound up the fraying edges and tightened up the many squares that were separating, but she seldom used it on her bed. She felt it was too precious to be used. It had pride of place in her closet so that whenever she opened the closet door, the quilt could be seen. I would sometimes come upon her during times of stress, her face buried in the folds of the quilt and her hand gently rolling the edges back and forth.
The quilt is now mine. It does not fit in with the décor of my bedroom, but I refuse to be without it. It is on my bed, enclosed in a white linen duvet. It is kept safe from further damage in the duvet. My sleep is peaceful and serene, knowing that this talisman of the past is lying over me. There is no space around my bed because that space is filled with the spirits of loving mothers who have gone before me.