This is not my quilt. Nor is that little being me.
This is my mother’s quilt. And that is my sister about age 3.
I remember this quilt. I remember the cutting and the pinning.
The large cardboard mat that was laid out on the floor that we would use in our make-believe games.
I remember my mom cutting her hand. Right in the webbing of her thumb.
This is still not my quilt. And it’s still not me.
This is still my mother’s quilt. And this little human is my son.
In 25 years the colors have worn off and the quilt is well loved in many areas.
But the memories and the comfort it provides still linger.
This is not my quilt, it’s my dream. My mother’s legacy.
I may not be a great quilter but I’m just beginning.
I may not sew the straightest seams or cut in perfect lines. But I’m working on it.
With each simple pattern and design I complete, the better I become.