Connecting Threads

My grandson discovers the bin

of color, my mother’s stash

of baby quilts, ready to wrap

at the drop of an announcement.

He leads her by the hand to say,

please!  In three generations, never

has such a request been made.

Protective and anxious, still

she can’t deny his quest

to explore her treasury, to snuggle

enswathe and pretend to sleep.

He studies each square with such

focus that she demands to know

the exact location of his own gifted

blanket.  Alas, it’s stored out of reach,

too precious for the likes of sticky

toddlers and destructive dogs.

And so his great grandmother begins

sewing — as madly as an 84-year-old

can, accompanied by a soft song

of moans and groans, and breaks

to solve cozy mysteries — mainly murders.

At each visit, he inspects the blocks,

placed in strips just so, no two alike.

She’s had a hard time

choosing the binding.

The backing is a strange collage

of eyes,

perhaps spectacles

black and white on blue.

He seems relieved when she adds

thick batting to make it squeezable.

And now, he spies it folded

neatly, and seizes the finished product

with a glad cry, Bibi, hide!

He is running to cover us

and create a new dark

quiet world.  We look wide-eyed

into each other’s faces, whisper.

An audience is optional; we create

scary dragons out of the smallest

settling of the house, safe here

in the well-meaning stitches

placed in this brand new heirloom.

Inspired by Quest, Squeezable, Optional and Color.

Published by

Victoria Stuart

I'm a poet, philosopher and inner seeker. A giver, lover and a healer who studies the heart.

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