QUILT MAKER
My father
could cut fabric with either hand
taking
cognisance of grain, warp, weft and diagonal.
I remember newspaper
triangular patterns.
His
tailor’s chalk left white crosses in its wake.
He figured
dimensions in his head, but cut
with
precision - no strip or machine quilting then
when we
cranked the handle that thrummed out blocks
each with
its own story to tell.
He finger-pressed
frocks and cast-offs that conjured up
memories -
sharp and ephemeral the way scents do -
pin-stitched
and back-stitched, summers pinioned.
He knew
that if pulled along the diagonal
the fabric would
stretch
as memories
do now across the bed.Copyright 2016 Cathy Leonard All rights reserved
I really like that, Cathy!
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