A Friday Fictioneers post, two weeks in a row? What is this madness? Could I actually be getting myself together and on a regular posting cycle again?
Stop laughing. It could -totally- happen.
My mother’s great-aunt, Tante Marie, spent hours hand-stitching quilts for every bed she came across.
When I was seven, I spent the summer with her in Vermont. Most days I sat at her feet, organizing strips of rags into neat piles from which she pulled and plied patterns together with surprising speed, gnarled hands whipping the flashing needle faster with each stitch.
I asked her why she made so many quilts. Everyone in the family had one, all with the same pattern of intricately knotted color. Tante Marie smiled at the question.
“To cover and keep safe, ma chère. Just like home.”