Curled up in Quilts
I have been making quilts for years now. A really good friend of mine is a master quilter and I would admire her fabric tops carefully sewn to make art. One day she invited me into her world of fabric addiction and cotton fluff.
I am sitting here on my small condo sized sectional couch. My feet are cold. My feet are always cold. I reach over and pull the red, blue, white and green flannel plaid quilt over to my size nine thin feet that can’t seem to hold in the heat, and gently carefully wrap the soft warn quilt around my toes.
This quilt belonged to my father. I made it for him as a bit of a personal rebellion. I remember as a young child that he liked bright coloured plaid and was not always able to purchase or wear such colours. Ok. He could wear his favourite soft old plaid shirts when hanging out at home and doing chores, but not when society (and my mom) wanted him to look more put together. He had plaid cotton shirts. I wanted him to know this gift was for him.
I learned to cut plaids and place them carefully. I machine pieced this work of art and love and then machine quilted it with a lovely thick cotton batting. Bound in more red flannel and his name written on fabric and hand sewn lovingly by my mother for his last days were spent in a hospital care ward. He slept with his quilt each night. He died with it on his bed as well.
Oh how I wept that day, my birthday was the same day he let go of life. I found myself wanting to hug that magic red flannel as if it still contained the essence of the wonderful man that he was to me.
Tonight I feel him here with me, enjoying that I treasure the quilt and make the choice to have it wrap my own self up in the love that was for him not so very long ago.
Good night dad,
With love and happy memories
Pamela and the quilt