Last summer, my mom drove down to visit with a large black trash bag stuffed into the car. In the plethora of stuff that fills the attic of the old farmhouse, she had found the workings of a patchwork quilt I had pieced together in my early teens.
It wasn't right away, but one day I pulled it out and began to finish adding the unattached squares and straightening the worst of the crooked stitch lines. I groaned at my poor sewing skills, from then and even still now, as I fondly recollected the memories of most all the fabrics used. A summer dress my mom wore, dad's old flannel barn shirts, odd pieces I used to sew doll clothes, the sheets that I'd snuggle into as a little kid on the big king bed when there was a thunderstorm. So many warm, embracing memories.
Finally pieced together, matted and backed with material I already had from another project, this quilt welcomes visitors in the guest bedroom.
Just the other weekend, a dearest friend came to visit. We hadn't spent time together, for 10 years, like we did that weekend. (Oh, what a weekend!)
Showing her to the guest room, having her here in my home, with me,
was like snuggling into that quilt. I felt embraced, wrapped up in cherished memories,
and loved all the way around.
We share a multitude of memories that mimic the variety of fabrics, patterns and textures of that quilt, and though many of them don't match so well, or align just right, as a whole, the quilt is still perfect. As our friendship has gone on through the years, life has treated it in similar fashion: we have sweet memories, rougher ones, odd ones, and incredible ones, and put all together, they form a beautiful and true story of our friendship.
Our friendship is like my not so perfectly created quilt, pieced together in unexpected ways, but is appreciated and treasured as only a friendship, or handmade quilt, can be. And I wouldn't have the cozy quilt or the dear friendship fashioned in any other way.