Yesterday I drove out to my storage unit to fetch a couple of wooden rocking chairs that I decided I didn’t want to keep. They had belonged to Mom and had been outside for a couple of years at her apartment, and then in storage after she moved to the nursing home, and they were not pretty. Still sturdy, though, and I fantasized about having a back yard or porch to put them on, or maybe (even more of a fantasy) a lake or cabin where their ugliness would blend right into the rustic surroundings. Lately, though, I’ve been letting go of such fantasies, and have been culling the things that I’ve hung on to for Someday, which included the rocking chairs in storage. They were even worse than I remembered and now covered with spider webs, dead insects (and a few live ones), and dried leaves. I pulled them out, sneezing in the process, and wiped off the worst of the detritus. Looking into the very back of the unit, I saw three boxes that I couldn’t identify, so I wedged myself between Mom’s dresser, cedar chest, credenza, and kitchen table, carefully squeezing my way until I could pull them out. I opened them and immediately realized I was looking at all the loose items I had kept when I packed up Mom’s apartment, five years ago. At the time, I was emotionally unable to deal with it all, and had just shoved everything into boxes, stashing them away for later. And now here I was, even more emotionally fragile after her recent death, forced to confront the consequences of my inaction. Hot, dirty, but determined to finish this task, I loaded them into the car with the chairs, and then I saw the black lawn bag. It was in a far corner, on the kitchen table, and I assumed it, too, held papers and cards from Mom’s apartment. But it didn’t.
It was her quilt. The one I had taken to the nursing home when she moved, along with the small quilt rack I’d found at a flea market in Missouri. Although her room was tiny, I had tried to make it as homey as I possibly could, decorating it with familiar photos, some lace doilies, a small side table, framed wall art, and a few knick knacks. Nothing would alter the fact that this was not home, but I could try. Week after week I’d visit, and the quilt would either be folded neatly on the rack by the wall, or (my favorite) tucked around the corners of her bed. “See this quilt?” she’d say to me, and I would dutifully look. “It’s beautiful,” I’d tell her. “It looks like the one Mother made when I was little,” she would say. I would smile and tell her, “It IS the one your mother made,” and I’d watch her face to invariably switch to surprise. “How can that be?” she’d ask in wonder and I would tell her I brought it for her to have. “It came from the farm?” Yes, I’d say (no point in trying to bring her to the present), and she would lapse into reminiscing about how she would go with her mother to the Methodist Church on Wednesdays, where the Ladies’ Aid women would meet to quilt. “They thought I was something special,” she’d grin with a sly look in her eye. “Oh, but you were!” I’d agree and she’d laugh. “Yes, yes I was.” Another day I would lay the quilt across my lap and Mom would tell me about the design. “It’s called, ‘Flower Garden,’” she’d say. “All those squares were from our old clothes. Mother never wasted any material.” I told her I loved the lavender and mint green rings the best, and I would find a square and ask her if she remembered wearing that piece of clothing. “Not really,” she said, “But I must have. Maybe this one was one of Dad’s old shirts. I don’t know.” She’d grow silent, stroking the design, then she’d hold up the edging. “See what small stitches Mother made,” she pointed out. “You can barely see them- she was very talented at quilting.” I agreed, it was a beautiful quilt, and I patted myself on the back for bringing it to her, happy that it brought her so much joy.
One day, the quilt wasn’t in her room. Frantic, I ran to the nurses’ station, asking about it. “It’s probably in the laundry,” I was told, and I blurted out, “But it’s an old quilt! It can’t be put in the laundry!” The nurse gave me a look of confusion and maybe sympathy, and assured me her name was on it, and it would be put back in her room. Feeling sick, I told myself that it would be fine. Maybe some stitches would get pulled out, but it would be fine. It wasn’t. The next time I visited, I was horrified to find the quilt on her bed, the beautiful lavender and mint green rings now faded to a dull, dingy yellow. They had used bleach and this was what had happened. My grandmother’s quilt. Ruined. Fighting tears and anger at myself for being so stupid, I gathered it up, folded it, and set it aside to take home. I remember putting it in the black lawn bag and shoving it into a dark corner of the storage unit, where I wouldn’t have to see the results of my actions. Of course I couldn’t have known this would happen, but I should’ve known better than to leave something valuable in a nursing home. My guilt and sadness were enormous, and I wrestled with the “if only” for a long time afterwards. Mom didn’t miss the quilt, of course- out of sight, out of mind- and, eventually, I also forgot about it. I bought a cheap butterfly comforter from Walmart for her, and life went on. Until yesterday, when the ruined quilt resurfaced.
As I packed it away with some other blankets, I asked myself: Was it worth it? If I had never taken the quilt to her, if it had stayed pristine, safely stowed away in a chest or bag, I would have the object, but I wouldn’t have the memory of the joy it brought Mom and the stories she told me. When I look at it now, I don’t see a ruined family heirloom so much as I recall the happiness on Mom’s face when I told her this was the same quilt her mother had made. “I miss her,” she’d say, her voice shaking and tears welling up in her eyes. Much like the tears I have right now. I know, Mom. I know.
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