A ragged quilt covers my bed.
It’s almost thread-bare in places;
it was quilted by Mama and Grandma
and I can still see their faces
beaming with happiness
and shining with joy and pride
as they stitched and they laughed
while they worked side by side.
What will my daughter remember–
the thought whirls through my head,
as I spread the wool blankets
atop her water-bed?
© Freeda Baker Nichols