Layers of contrasting fabric, in a variety of designs and colors lay on my mother’s bed. When I was young, the reds and blues and pink and purple soothed, invited me in, the warmth surrounded me.

Now, when I look at one of those quilts, faded and torn, raw edges here and there, batting peeking out as I mend with scraps of silk, I can think of nothing but her. Each patch brings a memory or question.

Oh, Mom, how did you do this? How did you know to cut up each square and triangle, choose each color, different patterns? Where did you learn to layer the pink and red remnants from the dresses you made for me?

Every quilt bleeds colors oozing blue into aqua with green, reds and yellows become orange.

Oh, Mom, when did you do this work, the laying out cloth, cutting and sewing, the hand stitching? While daddy was at work? When I was at school? I saw no evidence of the work you had been doing all day, now tucked away in a basket next to your sewing machine in the living room.

When I studied art and learned color theory, I brought you my scraps and suggested you make an art quilt with the silk I had dyed. And I gave you a color wheel.

“Oh,” you smiled and said softly, handing it back to me, “I have one of these. I never could learn how to use it.”

When I returned a few years later, you gave me a log cabin wall hanging with each cabin in a different color of my silk. Reds for the fire of summer, cool blues of winter, burnt orange and olive green for fall and the palest of all colors for spring.