Mama’s stitches were shorter and
more uniform than those made by
other ladies at the quilting parties.
When the patterned pieces of feed
sack wore thin, Mama’s stitches
held strong as the knots that kept
them in place.
A tablecloth, with faded black letters
across a corner brightened our
kitchen with appliqued red apples that
looked good enough to eat. There was
warmth in the kitchen that came from
somewhere other than the wood-burning
I cannot untangle my life, the way Mama
untangled twine, but she instilled in me
the determination to try. I sleep under a
machine-made comforter, but the thought
of Mama caring for her family warms me.
© Copyright, Freeda Baker Nichols