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Her Quilt
Taylor Richardson
It resides on the foot of my bed.
Simple material holds unimaginable memories.
Each square of fabric comes from drapes, tablecloths, and
clothes of all patterns and colors.
The pieces engage my senses and I feel my Granny’s pres-
ence.
From the quilt I hear her laughter.
I feel the thread making blisters on her hands.
I feel her warm embrace and the familiar smell of bread
baking in the oven.
The sound of the needle breaking her skin fills my ears.
I see the blood pool on her finger as she puts places it on
the strip that will determine the next needle’s job.
I listen to her cracking voice as her tears fall when the sy-
ringe full of insulin punctures her skin.
I hear her ragged breaths as she struggles to stay alive for
one more moment.
The emotions pour from me as all my senses are tricked
into thinking she is still here.
She is not alive.
Her death came ten years ago.
Her spirit lives on in the masterpieces she made.
Her spirit lives on in the stitches of her quilt.
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