As I lie upon
layers of contrasting fabric
red, blues, pinks and purples soothe
my mother’s quilt invites me in 
faded and torn, raw edges here and there
batting peeking out each patch
warmth surrounds me
I remember questions I never asked—

    Mom, how did you do this?        
    how did you know how to cut each square and triangle?
    where did you learn to layer pink and red
        remnants from the dresses you made me?
    when did you do this work, this cutting and sewing
    the hand stitching and making?
    while Dad was at work?
    while we were at school?

There is no trace of the work she’s been doing
now tucked away in the basket
next to her sewing machine in the sewing room
each quilt bleeds colors, oozing blue into aqua into green
I give her my shibori dyed silk scraps.

    Here Mom, you can make an art quilt and I’ve brought you a color wheel.
    Oh, I have one of those, she said with a tender smile
    I never could learn how to use it.

When I visit a few years later, she hands me a log cabin wall hanging
For each cabin she used a different color of my silk—
fire for fall, cool blues for winter and a mixture for spring and summer.