I made a quilt this winter.
Nobody asked me to.
I just wanted something to do with my hands.
I sat on my bed with my scraps and my needle.
Pink shirt here, blue curtain there.
Old things, mostly.
Things nobody wanted anymore.
“Why bother,” my neighbor said.
“You can buy one cheaper,” she told me.
I didn’t listen.
I kept stitching anyway.
Every evening, same spot on the bed.
My sneakers still on, ready for errands.
My glasses sliding down my nose.
I picked tulips for the pattern.
Red ones, mostly.
I don’t know why.
Maybe because spring felt far away.
Maybe because I needed color.
The cross on my wall watched me work.
I talked to it sometimes.
“Help my hands stay steady,” I said.
“Let this one turn out right.”
Weeks passed.
My fingers got sore.
My eyes got tired.
Still I kept going.
Some nights I unpicked whole rows.
Started over without complaint.
Nobody was timing me.
There was no deadline.
Just me and the fabric.
When it was finished, I spread it on the bed.
I sat beside it for the photo.
Pink top, blue trousers, old sneakers.
Glasses on, looking straight ahead.
The quilt covered half the bed.
Tulips everywhere, a little crooked.
Some squares bigger than others.
Colors that don’t quite match.
My daughter saw the picture.
“Mom, it’s a bit much,” she said.
“I know,” I answered.
“But I made it myself.”
That matters more than pretty.
Every stitch is mine.
Every mistake, mine too.
I don’t need anyone’s approval.
This quilt kept my hands busy.
It kept my heart warm.
Call it ugly if you want.
I call it mine, and that’s enough.