This is for my grandmother

She died in December a few years ago. I miss her.


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Stitches


1.

When I was going to get married, you gave me a quilt.
The Wedding Ring, but the links were doubled. You had pieced
and sewed it by hand and it was beautiful, meant to grace
my marriage bed. I thought
you’d change your mind when I changed
mine, but you let me keep it anyway.
maybe, one day


2.

Your work was always on display at the County Fair.
The state recognized you as a contemporary, traditional quiltmaker and your quilts hung
in the Palace of the Governors. A magazine article and a splash
of fame in the life of a maid.

Later, when I worked for the Smithsonian, I offered your name
for the folklife program. The local coordinator was surprised.
Rosie Brooks is your grandmother? he asked.
And I smiled big, proud to say yes.
So proud.


3.

I only wanted to learn"The Bear Claw." So much a little girl, collecting plush and porcelain.
The other names meant nothing to me — “The Log Cabin,” “Strip,” “Flower Baskets.”

A “Britches Quilt” was what your family poor, black and in Texas
made to keep warm. Old britches were always saved. Your daddy’s and your brothers’.
But I only wanted to learn "The Bear Claw." And I didn’t want anything made from leftovers.

4.

Before you forgot who I was, you gave me
all the quilt tops you had. Of ten grandchildren, only I
loved to sew. I dropped by a quilt shop, once,
bought muslin, but not the batting. You kept asking
and I made excuses.

Later, when you left the hospital, in those days of your dying,
I would tell you how I was finally making progress.
I even promised to bring you a quilt for your medical bed
in your daughter’s house. Yes, I lied.
But I didn’t care because talking of quilts made you smile.

5.

Almost Christmas. A year after your death. At a craft show,
a woman stands and watches me stitch a bear by hand.
She asks if I ever prick myself
and goes on to share how hand quilters often leave drops
of blood in the seams. Later at home, I unpack the quilt tops,
lay them across the living room floor.
On my knees, I search the stitches
for that which also flows through my veins.
Search for what I need in order
to do what you have entrusted to me, and finish it all.