The Quilt

 
The quilt lies folded, on their bed,
A gift from years ago,
Assembled with a heap of love,
And by a lamp's warm glow.
 
His mother made the quilt with care,
Each block precisely cut,
With careful hands and scissors that,
Slowly opened, then shut.
 
The colors that she picked for him,
She knew to be his favorite,
So when he wrapped himself at night,
She knew that he would savor it.
 
Each tiny stitch, put in by hand,
Showed how much love she had,
For the son, now all grown up,
Though that was somehow sad.
 
She had put some roses in each block,
Knowing how much that would please him,
Remembering how he used to pick,
Her flowers, as she teased him.
 
For years when she would visit them,
The quilt lay folded still,
She wondered if it would be used,
Even after she became ill.
 
And when the day had finally come,
And the end was very close,
Her son bent near, touched her cheek,
Held out a single rose.
 
His voice was strained, with effort there,
To keep things light as he said,
"Mom, it was so cold last night,
That I used the quilt on the bed!"
 
He saw the tears that filled her eyes,
Then watched them close in peace,
The hands he held, that made the quilt,
Let go then, in slow release.
 
(c)  2004  Loree (Mason) O'Neil
 

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