Quilt

Summary

A mother reflects on her life with her daughter through the metaphor of a quilt, each square representing a year of their shared experiences.

Abstract

The text is a poignant prose poem that uses the metaphor of a quilt to encapsulate the memories and emotions shared between a mother and her daughter over twenty-three years. Each square of the quilt symbolizes a year in the daughter's life, starting from her birth and ending at her departure for an overseas adventure. The mother contemplates the natural order of life and death, acknowledging the pain of her daughter's untimely passing and the joy of their moments together. She envisions adding more squares to the quilt, representing the laughter, tears, and deep conversations they would have had if her daughter had lived longer. The final square, however, is imagined as a somber piece, reflecting the mother's grief at the graveside. The poem concludes with a scene of the daughter and her family at home, finding comfort in the quilt of memories.

Opinions

The mother believes that life's events do not necessarily follow an orderly sequence, as evidenced by her daughter's early death.
She cherishes the memories of her daughter, viewing them as precious and varied as the fabrics in a quilt.
The mother wishes to continue the tradition of adding to the quilt, symbolizing the continuation of their relationship through imagined experiences.
She feels a profound sense of loss and grief, which is represented by the somber colors of the final square.
The mother finds some solace in the legacy of the quilt, which serves as a tangible connection to her daughter and a source of comfort for the family.

A prose poem

From the ‘Letters to my Daughter’

If I were to stitch a quilt from all our Octobers, it would have twenty-three squares.

The first made from the soft, fluffy fabrics fit for a one-month-old baby girl: pearly whites, pale yellows, pastel pinks, sky-blues, hand-knitted woollen booties with a matching hat, a little card with a flowery border, and a drawing of a smiling Kiwi in the corner, sewn in the centre.

The last made from vibrant, multicolour fabrics fit for a young woman rushing through Auckland airport, her mum frantically trying to keep up, squeezing a hug, snatching a kiss, taking a photo, just before she disappears through the passengers-only gates on her way to a big overseas adventure. Seven years ago, to the date.

Twenty-three squares.

That’s not much.

I don’t know how many squares there are meant to be. How many squares do people ordinarily have?

Maybe fifty-eight. The age I am now. Five years, two months, and six days since you died. I’ll take that. Fifty-eight squares.

You once said you could not imagine anything happening to me. I said it is the natural order of things. Clearly, I didn’t know what I was saying. You never had time for the orderly order of things.

Still, it would give us five more squares.

Seamed from the airy tulles of laughter, felted velvets, and crisp taffetas of tears. Rich and delicate charmeuses of discussions that last long into nights, gauzy and crinkled crepes of jokes, gossip, disagreements. Intricate lace of hopes, dreams, plans.

What colours do you think? I say we use all the brights, not the garish ones of course, but the fine, elegant ones: ivory whites, warm beige, a wisp of yellow, spun gold, perhaps some sage and earthy hues — they always suited you. There would be much to discuss and, no doubt, argue over.

But not for our last square. I’d stitch that one myself.

From the sombre fabrics of steel and charcoal greys — the colours of clouds hanging low over the solitary tree at the edge of a cemetery, you standing by my coffin with your family. A tall man with an open, trusting face next to you, his hand over your shoulders, your little girl’s hand in his. Outside, the first droplets of rain land quietly on the new leaves, adding gloss to deep greens. One landed on top of the little girl’s nose; she pulls her father’s hand to show him. He is saying they have to leave soon before the rain thickens.

At home, you cry a little in a big, wooden chair in front of a fireplace, rocking the little girl to sleep. The two of you wrapped in a quilt stitched together from the twenty-eight squares of bright, rich fabrics, their fibres shimmering in the rose-gold of the evening.

Thank you for reading.