by Madonna Wilt

Created on: April 28, 2010   Last Updated: December 08, 2010

Trundled

A sunlit ray, subdued, squeezes

through open slats, illuminating

a forgotten corner of the attic.

There, in the falling light

memories converge,

as a single bloom emerges

from the fragments Mom stitched.

Tightrope threads unravel

a patchwork quilt

spread open to reveal

thread-bare memories

clustering into faded rooms.

Center squares of blue corn-flowers

freckled with specks of yellow

cut from my favorite Sunday dress,

surrounded by triangles of Mom’s

lime-green apron she wore whenever

she baked chocolate-laden treats.

Further out, drab green

squares of Dad’s rough-hewn

dungarees he wore

when he showed me how to hoe

straight rows between

the soy beans he grew.

On the outermost layers,

diamonds of my sister’s

pink polka-dot dress,

passed-down to me.  Patched

between my sister’s diamonds,

triangles of my unbleached muslin,

First Communion dress.

Above each bloom rests

a blue ladybug cut from my stillborn

brother’s never-used baby blanket,

arranged against the dark backdrop

of some Halloween past –

a witch or grim reaper – perhaps.

Learn more about this author, Madonna Wilt.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.