A patchwork quilt gifted from her mother on the birth of her daughter
arrived in the mail, the box wrapped in a paper bag much the way her
mother covered school books years ago.  The quilt was handstitched with
fabric gleaned from a dressmaking factory’s dumpster located behind her
mother’s workplace.  Curiously, the quilt was unfinished as she carefully
unfolded it, there was no backing, it was only the quilt top. A handwritten
note was attached to the fabric, “For the baby.  You can finish it.”
She actually loved the quilt top with its colorful fabric and variety of designs, 
but she never understood why her mother did not complete it. Unfinished work
in progress, half a painting on a canvas, a knitted sweater with one arm missing, 
an empty plate at the dinner table. She never asked her mother about it, much
like her hesitation to ask about other things in their strained relationship, a
distance geographically enhanced. The quilt top hung over the back of an old 
chair pushed into a corner. Whenever she noticed it she thought of her new
baby and no time to sew.  No money to purchase batting and fabric for the back.
No desire to finish it. No room in her heart to even think about it. One day
when the baby was sleeping, she noticed the sun powering through the
window reflecting sparkle on the blocks of fabric.  She picked it up and
wrapped it around her shoulders, an embrace from the past, a hint of
lavender sachet was released.
                                Tears rolled down her face,
                                as the snow melts down the mountainside
                                and the rain falls from heaven.