I like to imagine that one day, decades from now, this quilt will be folded nicely in a box, maybe a wooden chest, wrapped in paper, or maybe stuffed with mothballs next to baby blankets and forgotten treasures and trinkets. And one day, her great grandchild will discover it and wonder about the pleats, the pattern, the story.
She gently brushes away an ancient grain of sand or two as she traces her small fingers over the batik waves, the yellowed ivory silk, and the wine-stained linen. She smiles at the sunburst and makes up stories about the animals below the water’s surface, and she smiles wider when her family tells her that her great-grandma Meghan was a storyteller too.
I’ve been piecing together the waves using a technique called curved piecing. It’s taken a bit to get the hang of it, but the waves seem to be taking shape. There’s an ebb and flow I want to capture; a movement I want to mimic–smooth sweeping swells with whitecaps and light fading into dark, lit with a sunburst that’s neither coming nor going.
I must get it just right. Their story demands it; deserves it. As every word of a story must be chosen as sacred, so every story is sacred in itself. Each cut, each stitch, is a word chosen, a ripple in the water that reaches outward across oceans and across time.