Hand-Me-Downs

October 28, 2025 8 Comments

When Mother passes the quilt to me at age seven, it’s too heavy.

My tiny bones crack under its weight. I leave it in the armoire, only to dust it off thirty years later.

It’s a mess of patchwork fabrics, from cashmere to muslin. Some pieces are battered and stained. The blood unwashable, like ichor.

With my fabric on hand, I add my piece. I stitch, I sew, I strive.

I pass the quilt to my daughter and explain why it’s so heavy. Her knees tremble, but she stands.

She stitches, she sews, she strives.

We stitch, we sew, we strive.

The Power of Imagery with Nina Schuyler