I’ve always loved quilts. They’re so homey and comforting. Their rustic charm, yet intricate design, hits an artistic spot that few things in life can. The best of both worlds: true artisanship meets retro simplicity.
Our first Christmas after we lost our son, I received my favorite quilt from my husband. Embellished in a patchwork of fabric more precious to me than gold, each square and rectangle ignites: a thought, a memory, and a fount of emotion. What once clothed my son, now adorns this precious keepsake. Rather than tucked away in boxes in the basement, lost to the darkness of the room and my mind, his re-purposed clothes remain vibrant and present, welcoming and warming.
It stays draped over my love seat all year round. As the cold weather moves in, as it inevitably does this time of year in New England, so does the commonplace spot for this special quilt. As I lift it and drape myself in its warmth, it is not just my cold fingers and toes that it warms.
Most affected by its loving presence is my soul. Grieving and healing, two things only the sands of time dare tackle, allow cherished memories to overshadow unthinkable tragedy. Despite periodic clogs in the hourglass by tears shed, as time trickles on, the warmth provided by my special quilt continues to become dearer and dearer to my heart.
Although I can’t hold him, wrapping myself in what once hugged and kept him warm and happy, soothes my soul.