Once upon a time a very sentimental and emotionally-unstable-but-working-towards-stable girl had a baby. Well she had two babies. Once those those babies grew up she watched as all of her friends in her tiny town community unceremoniously give away all of their babies’ grown-out-of-clothes. Some were passed to this girl and some were passed to other girls as well.

Well this girl cherished every hand-me-down and especially cherished every single article of clothing that she bought herself to cloth her babies.

These weren’t just clothes to her. Oh no. They had passed her hands and had swaddled her babies. They had absorbed all of the spit up and blow outs that were specific to her kids. They had added a vividness and brightness to a vibrant world in which her babies had brought into her life. In a small and very large way, these pieces had become an extension of her children and the fibers of her memories were weaved between the tendrils of cotton that clothed her littles.

The girl hoarded and saved these clothes from each child, in a box, hidden away. Her memories and emotions preserved. In fits of minimalism when everything else in the house was donated and discarded, these boxes stayed behind. Until one day, the girl’s spirit sang to her and told her it was time.

She gathered up all of the pinks, and corals, and aquas, and mints, and the onesies and the cutesies. She gathered them all up and cut and trimmed and stressed that she was doing the right thing.

She found all of the most precious of garments, especially those with stains and wear, and carefully cut them into squares. She excited went to the store and picked the brightest of blues, the prettiest of pinks, and the flutteriest of birds on soft material. She brought them home and mathematically cut them into dozens and dozens of six inch blocks.

She lovingly sewed those squares onto blocks. Then she placed those blocks on a vintage-y suitcase that sat on a white country cottage chair beside the black-and-white flowing curtains, next to the kitchen window with the spring air flowing air.

For a week, those blocks sat there. They were the centerpiece of the house and the girl couldn’t move them. All she could do was admire. Then she realized that this material that was so emotionally significant to her was seeing the light of day. It was being appreciated because it was no longer inside of that box, pushed to the deepest and most sensitive corners of her heart and home. Perhaps it was just clothing. But also, perhaps it was moreso art. Art in the forms of colors, textures, and shades of sweetness that her children had worn and that were permanently imprinted on her heart. And if art it was, isn’t art meant to be out in the open and appreciated? Isn’t that it’s sole purpose?

A week later she took those blocks and sewed them into strips of twelve. Because when we are dealing with art we also need to involve the magic of logic and numbers in order to make sense and construction of our world.

Days later she had strips and strips flowing over her dining room chair. It was beautiful and again, it was art. She left them there for a day or two and admired them still. For two days they wistfully fluttered in the spring breeze by the kitchen window which was shuttered black-and-white flowing curtains.

Finally she took those strips, a glass of water, and whole pot of determination and pushed through to sew the entire quilt together. It was difficult and stressful with the demands of the world upon her and yet she persevered.

After the quilt top was complete she, lovingly laid it on the ground and admired her work. Her little girl admired it too. “Oh, look mama, there’s a bunny! There’s a kitty! Oh look, it’s sooo pwetty!!”.

The girl’s heart was emotionally fulfilled and complete and yet she still wasn’t done.

She then went to the store and bought some batting and carefully picked out a teal-colored flat sheet. She knew that buying a sheet would save her time and money as opposed to buying yards of material and sewing them together. A secret to thrifty quilting that she invented (but later found out that invent, she did not).

Right sides facing together with the batting on top, she sewed all three layers together. Around the entire perimeter of her precious quilt blocks.

But before she arrived at her starting point she stopped. Pulled the entire quilt inside out and then sewed the remainder

Again, she laid it on the ground and this time admired the weightedness of the quilt. It had fluff; it had sustenance. It would fulfill it’s role in keeping her child feel warm and secure.

And yet, she still wasn’t done. With the last of her remaining resolve, she pushed her through her faultering tenacity and stitched line upon and intersected lines and connecting lines and all of the lines that are required to keep the batting in place and threads supported and secure. She grounded the quilt and instilled in that quilt the backing and certainty and soundness and peace of mind that that quilt will stand the test of time. And toddlers. But mostly toddlers.

From there she delicately snipped all of the loose threads and studied the corners of the quilt. At a later date, she ruminated to herself, I will need to go back and handstitch the date. As one does, of course.

She then folded the quilt and placed it on the back of the teal-colored highchair in which she had fed her babies upon when they were babies. From which that quilt perched for the remainder of its days to be admired and loved upon.