You fought to leave that hospital,
but in the last hour you were calm;
you saw something beautiful in the air,
and “stitched” us something in your lap,
handing us the “threads” with a face of wonder.

Once home, we covered you with a pretty quilt,
not one of your own precise creations, but
a treasure won at a church auction.

Multi-patterned blocks with
a single tie each,machine sewn,
thick, colorful, homey. 

Your vision long since faded,
the bright simplicity had spoken to you.

We tried to surround you with peace
as we each held a hand
that could no longer squeeze or sew,
as we sang and cried and smoothed your shroud
as neighbors poured in, and your son wept in the kitchen.

I told myself I would remember
how every square laid together, 
every fold as it covered your small form,
the way your head lay on the pillow.

It has only been two weeks
but I can only recall that there was a blanket
and you, and my sister, and me.