I got out my grandma’s quilt the other day. The one she made more than a decade and a half ago. It was in a blue plastic bin in my storage room.
When I took it out, it occurred to me that every single square inch of that quilt was lovingly handled by her. I know she would be proud to examine every square inch again. And find her critiques. And make comments about how she picked out the color scheme. My Potterybarn duvet covers don’t seem so important anymore.
It’s on my bed now, and I won’t hesitate again to use it. It’s my job to make sure that it won’t smell like blue plastic again. She’d be so glad that I am giving it life.
Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure there are other lovely things that I’ve been gifted, given to use and appreciate and love. Beautiful glass things that have been kept behind a closet door for too long, afraid they’ll be broken. So I’ll get them out. Serve dinner in them. Sip tea from them. Cover our beds with them.
And so, the blue bin is gone.
…Of rare beauty in pattern and design
She formed them with love
Into a tapestry of aesthetics sublime.
These squares of fabric became a work of art
In my grandma’s talented and trained hands…
Girls of a Feather 