I came home today. I took the bus. I saw the skyline where the sun meets the sweet hills and I knew it was only a matter of time before I'd be in the arms of my family. I knew the turns and the twists of the roads. I saw the signs and I made it. I came home today.
I walked through the front door, took a right and carried on up the stairs. My mother had laced the walls with black and white pictures of people gone before us. There was a pile of work shirts my Dad was done with and had decided to pass on to me because he knows how I love the feeling of worn down Yves St. Lauren. That I need to breathe in baggy shirts. On my bed lay the best of surprises.
A quilt. Colour lit by love and woven with the greatest of care. Mother dearest had chosen fabrics rich in reds and beige to warm my bed. She'd sewn together each patch and done so with little hearts around each square. Tiny pieces to make something greater.
They'd been pulled to pieces by the lady at the quilt shop. She'd sliced them straight down into small enough portions. They'd been separated and left alone.
It's a familiar story yes?
We are pulled apart. By something, by someone. We feel isolated, alone, as though we'll never be as big or as beautiful as what we used to be.
Then, someone, something comes along and changes our world. We are picked up, put in place, love becomes an intertwining factor and weaves us next to those who make us greater.
It's rather spectacular. A metaphor for brokenness being made beautiful. Quilt.
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