When I graduated high school, my mom made me a quilt. Not just any patchwork, scrap quilt, but an intricate, well-planned one. Each basket square was given to a close friend, family member, or person who impacted my life. Each was given a fabric pen and instructed to write something on the square and give it back to my mom. These squares traveled as far as England. After the top was pieced, she stitched flowers and grapes and leaves on every square inch of the quilt, save the border, where she stuffed letters to form the first phrase from Shakespeare’s 18th sonnet — “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate.”
yeah. my mom’s a badass.
She named the quilt, “The Secret Garden.” From far away it can be admired, but only when you crawl across it with your nose nearly touching the fabric will you be able to see its true beauty. Each square has different foliage — oak leaves for the wisdom of my father, forget-me-nots for my high school boyfriend, evergreen boughs for my now passed-away grandmother. Nothing was overlooked in this masterpiece.
As a young adult I was worried about using the quilt for fear of ruining it. Also, I never had a good bed for it. This quilt needs a regal bed — and I don’t just mean a queen size. It needs to be displayed with care and reverence.
Fast forward 10 years. My husband’s mom is moving out of state and she gave us an antique brass bed. Benetfinks & Comp. Made in Cheapside, London.
One thought on “My Quilt Finally Has a Home”
I'll take it!