by Susan J. Wurtzburg
Old patched quilts hanging over a ladder in a sun-filled corner of the bedroom.
The most colorful one, perhaps a hundred years old, is surprisingly intact.
Its white background interspersed with patterned fabric vibrantly abloom,
delicately repaired by my grandmother, whose tiny stitches can be tracked.
Sewn by hand, a dying skill, women gifting their eyesight to a family’s warmth.
In this manner, heavy cotton quilts map the genealogy of relationships in the north. Continue reading