Heart of the Home: A Mother's Touch

After her son was born, Sarah had an innate understanding that a mother's work is never really done. She sat in that chair beside his bed, sewing his quilt, for the hundredth time, at least. When she bought it at a flea market that day, she had no way of knowing that it would end up being her son's most prized possession.

It was nothing more than a thousand irregularly shaped swatches stitched together, layer after layer, until the entire thing was thick enough to hold in the warmth of a young boy's body as he drifted off to sleep, so calling it a quilt would be stretching the definition.

.. It must have taken countless hours for the individual who stitched this labor of love together to transform the useless bits into a blanket that might be used. Sarah believed it was her responsibility to mend the inevitable tears as a sign of respect to its unidentified maker and love for the young child who treasured it.

The first night he wrapped himself in the old quilt, her little son said to himself, "I love how cool it feels when I first get into bed." But soon, it starts to warm up, and I feel as comfortable as a bug in a rug. How did you obtain it?

Sarah slightly exaggerated the facts as the boy had big eyes and the question's answer was too commonplace. To the delight of her son, she said, "It was brought over on the Mayflower by the Pilgrims." "It is the first blanket used by the first Americans and is made from pieces of fabric from all over Europe."

Though it was only a small white lie, it marked the start of a treasured custom. Sarah sat by the boy's bed and patched the heirloom as the stitches came undone and the tears tore at the quilt and the boy's heart. She would then go on to tell the "true" tale of how her son came to own the quilt.

"General Cornwallis took your quilt during the Revolutionary War and used it to warm his legs on chilly winter nights." With a tale as complex as the blanket itself, Sarah said. "It wasn't returned until the surrender at Yorktown."

"Yorktown?"

"Yeah, Yorktown," she grinned, "George Washington used it during his eight years as president, having taken it from Cornwallis."

"You mean the White House is where my blanket has been?"

"Obviously it has," Sarah winked in response. "But no, stupid, it's not because of George Washington. The first president to reside at the White House was John Adams.

"So, Mom, who took my blanket to the White House?" the young child said.

Sarah gave her kid a forehead kiss in response and said, "That's a story for later." "Go get some sleep now, and I'll finish the story when I get a chance."

Unfortunately, Sarah's son was diagnosed with crippling headaches, so she had far too many opportunities to carry on the blanket's story. The doctors initially believed he was susceptible to systemic migraines, but in actuality

lot worse. The tiny kid would curl up in agony on far too many evenings, his teeth gritted in a false smile. The only things that helped him go asleep were his mother's soothing voice, a cold washcloth, and the story of the quilt. The headaches were unbearable.

Sarah would spend many a night sitting with her sleeping kid, painstakingly repairing the tears that threatened to pull the blanket apart, and wishing there was a way she could mend her son too. Sarah's music would be the only sound in the otherwise silent room.

She has been doing it since she was in his age range. She would unintentionally but purposefully let the air to pass between her lips, making a song specifically for him that would last only for that instant before being replaced the following time by something equally lovely and distinctive.It turns out that shortly after Abraham Lincoln was elected president, the quilt was first brought to the White House.

The following evening, Sarah continued the story where they had left off. More chapters were needed more frequently because the agony was becoming more frequent and acute. But the next part of the story produced the intended effects—a smile and a diversion.

Her little youngster, too innocent to question his mother, questioned, "Abraham Lincoln, he used my quilt, too?"

Sarah laughed and tickled her son in response, saying, "Of course he did." "As little-known as it may seem, Mount Rushmore was intended to depict every president who ever used your blanket."

Whenever Sarah sat with her kid, she had a basin of cold water by her side. She found out very quickly that the cool towel would ease his headache pain. Her greatest delight was moistening the handkerchief that she used to keep it cold during her narrative. Although the small boy's head was still pounding, it seemed as though he temporarily forgot about the pain as his mother was narrating the story and softly wiping his forehead with a cold cloth.

Sleep was turning into his sole reprieve from the discomfort, so if all went well, he would drift off to sleep while hearing the story of his blanket.

"Were you aware that your blanket traveled to the moon?" One day Sarah inquired as to why her son was acting so depressed. "Even though Neil Armstrong was the first person to set foot on the moon, he laid out your quilt for a picnic with Buzz Aldrin."

Mother and son burst out laughing when they imagined two astronauts having a picnic on the moon.

He questioned his mother, "Is Buzz Lightyear named after Buzz Aldrin?" as they were still laughing.

"In actuality, he was," Sarah grinned in response. "If you must know, Buzz Lightyear received your quilt as a gift from Buzz Aldrin, which indicates that your blanket has been

"To the limitless beyond!"

Sarah confirmed, "Exactly," before readjusting his cloth and putting it back on his head.

She would take her son to doctors, specialists, and finally the hospital on a daily basis. Then she would sit beside his bed and recount the quilt's narrative, night after night. Sarah tried her hardest to make the story go on and on, passing hope from mother to son with each new adventure in the best way she knew how.

In many respects, the night she wrapped up the story was similar to most of the others. At home, Sarah was curled up in her favorite recliner by her son's bed. Her speech was shaky, and she was breathing heavily. "And then, while on my way home from the store, I made a detour at a flea market, where I saw your gorgeous blanket. I picked it up, gave the kind woman her money, and took it home to you because I knew you had to have it.

Sarah's eyes welled with tears as she finished the last stitch on the worn-out quilt. She held it up and recalled the first time her son had used the blanket to cover himself. I adore the feeling of coolness I get when I first get in bed.

"It has now been corrected. It's flawless. Sarah murmured aloud as her tears didn't stop. "I also adore how awesome it feels."

She placed the cherished blanket on the vacant bed in front of her, mustering all her strength.

At least she had hoped that being a mother is a task that is never truly ended. Having done everything she could for her kid, she reclined in the chair and wept quietly.

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