The Quilt

 

Where do I start a story about the patchy relationship between a mother and daughter?  Do I begin with the beginning of the relationship?  Or do I begin with her beginning to point out the clues that might have made my mother who she became as an adult?  I really don’t know where to start our story.  The relationship was like a patchwork quilt.  Some of the blocks did look beautiful in all the right patterns and color combinations.  A good many blocks came together at wrong angles with ugly fabric that clashed, especially at the bottom of the quilt.  Ugly!

Last year at this exact same time in November 2019, I envisioned writing this story as a memoire with the theme of prison.  I felt I was being held hostage by my mother.  I didn’t have one positive, nice thing to say about her besides she was an amazing quilter.  My anger and frustration consumed me.  I dreaded Sunday afternoon calls.  Her hopelessness covered me, suffocating as if a quilt was being pressed against my face.

Now, I sit in my bedroom with all of her leftover quilting projects.  Though I was still angry with her after she died, I couldn’t bear to throw all of her unfinished work away.  All the piles of quilt tops, cut strips of fabric, various stages of done projects were her legacy.  So, I packed them in boxes, nine totes to be exact.  I drug them to my garage, except one I took to my writing room along with the sewing machine stand and her travel machine.

As we prepared the house to sell, I thought of writing.  Traveling the five hours back and forth from my house to hers, I thought of how I wanted to heal through writing like I did when my dad died.  I thought of the coming year of working on the quilting projects, learning as I sewed.  I thought of my daughter’s senior year of high school and my amazingly supportive husband.  The last thing I wanted for them, our home, or myself was to be in a black hole of anger.  Maybe writing our story was a bad idea.

I also listened to people during this time of closure.  People loved my mom.  They mourned her.  Those who knew her well felt sorrow at her mental state.  Yes, my story of anger is a true story, but their story is true as well.  The little girl in me wanted to find the love I lost for her, to remember happy times with her.  Sure, the snarky teen and angry adult wanted to hold on to the injustice of her actions, I still do on some days.  The combination of the young and old wants to burn the guilt I harbor.  The older, mature adult in me ultimately wants to find peace and finish the damn quilt.

Besides, sitting at the sewing machine, emotions bubble up.  Some stories play in my head.  I need to get my thoughts out on the page.  I am a writer.  That is what we do.  Whether I do either my mom or me justice or the topic, time will tell.  All I know is the story needs told.  The quilt needs to be done, so I can use it without wanting to take it apart with the seam ripper.

While I write my story, I will be finishing her projects.  Below is the majority of the work I have in front of me.  I have finished a couple of things.  I have more projects in my writing room as well.  In the end, I should have a count of everything that I have accomplished.  I am sure the project of sewing will take me longer then a year.  The writing?  I will see what happens.  I declare the year of the quilt starting today.