Pull off the machine-sewn, ink-stained sorta’ old one. Then grasp with both hands the really old one to toss and shake out and let fall to drape the mattress. Slip under the mellow comfort of a hand-sewn quilt with dress scraps of flowers and bows stitched into geometric shapes across the top with the same bows and flowers material widely edging each side. This work of skill and love and joy sewn by my grandmother and church ladies sitting around cloth stretched on a wooden frame covers me now. Hands with age spots and crooked fingers sporting thimbles jabbed needles down and then pushed up through muslin and cotton while the women laughed and gossiped the small town news.
The quilt has a faint odor of cedar from years in the Lane. Its creases quickly eased and flattened as it straddled my bed. The handwritten note of provenance pinned to a corner for my heirs was tossed into the garbage. I lived its provenance and plan to exhaust it and leave behind only the scraps.