A fine specimen, I must say.
The blocks hand-stitched so neatly,
Each length of fabric tells a story.
Made by the loving hands of Grandma.
The quality no longer available,
For monotonous machines have taken its place.
Colours and patterns mesh together so well,
As if they made to be put there.
Every flower so meticulously stitched.
Arranged in an array of combinations,
Flowers with solids, solids with solids, flowers with flowers.
Making the perfect blanket for cool nights.
All quilts have a story behind them,
The maker's story.
Of the past, of the present,
The intriguing part of growing old.
Every stitch tells a feeling.
The secrets of your past, Grandma.
For years I would stare at your quilts,
Pondering what they could mean,
Wondering the story of yesterday.
You always promised to tell me one day,
But I was too busy, a regret.
Now there is time for the long awaited tale.
You are not getting any younger, Grandma.
Older and frailer with each passing day.
All the more time on your hands to tell me,
For soon it might be too late.
The quilt I bring as a refresher,
To avoid the plague that hits the young at heart.
Though, you already know the story quite well.
I am ready now, Grandma.
As we sit down, I notice how you ease into the chair,
Does it hurt your back, Grandma?
When you talk, your voice rasps,
Is this a cold coming on, Grandma?
Your hands shakes, as you gently stroke your handi-work,
Is it the emotions, Grandma?
A lot has changed, I notice over the years,
I notice this now, as you tell me the tale of your patchwork quilt.
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