The weight of love

The I of me is soft, at times.

Others—delicate, complex, resilient.

Not unlike my grandma’s quilt.

Squares of polyester bell-bottoms that wore-through at the knee

aligned with a moth-eaten wool suit—damage cut away.

Perfection of machine-made lines parallel

a sequence of mended, hand-sewn, rough edges.

Solid colors, mostly. Dark grays, browns, blues.

A few of vibrant and bold 70s plaid,

even fewer stripes, one or two patterns.

Animals and flowers muted, quiet, demure.

Mom’s schoolgirl dress of soft red velvet

next to slacks. Then, Grandpa’s favorite shirt.

An earth-toned brown plaid of polyester, butterfly collar.

Rugged, lasting through years, caught illuminated at Christmas.

A roar of laughter when the slideshow reveals several encores

as other figures shift in Sunday best.

Tied in the center, every fourth square.

A bright color of yarn, knotted. An inch left,

frayed, yet sturdy for the gathered layers.

Lost to me now. Maybe hastily discarded after the divorce of my 20s.

Perhaps a breakup or the cross-country move of my 30s.

Regretful in my 40s, but replaced.

I met my friend’s mother in the hospice living room of her childhood home.

Weeks later, I purchase it at the estate sale, $10.

Similar, worn-out garments, reshaped.

This substitution helped me see all of the colors,

flooded back with emotion of memories in garments

remade again to become useful. The version of me

this day, month, minute.

I do, too. Hide the sad parts and (attempt) to learn from past regrets,

into new. Cut some away. Toss out and forget those best left behind.

Torn pieces mended. The patches that need repair,

I will match a thread, though cannot hide all flaws.

Under the weight of these stories and history, I am comforted.

The rips, worn-out edges, all create this lovely combination.

My maker self says, “I am here.” A harmony of feelings,

talents, thoughts, movements. I accept what is—

I am the colors, shapes, love, made whole.

Me.