To Quilt

My mother taught me how to quilt. She helped me gather scraps of colorful calico and arrange them in a meaningful pattern. She taught me how to sew, press, weave, and improvise while stitching together leftover strips of fabric. She passed that skill down to me so that I could sew too.

My mother taught me how to quilt. I learned by example. She made a thing of beauty from leftovers. That was her life―tattered remnants of patterns and plans that never came to be but stitched together when abandonment wasn’t an option. Life is messy—it can feel like an endless series of improvisations in the face of opposition.

My mother taught me how to quilt. I learned to make do, recycle, and re-use. I stitched together what was left of torn dreams to create something useful, warm, and comforting. I didn’t understand the power of a needle and thread until my mother showed me, but now, I am seeing it’s one of the most valuable skills she taught me.

My mother taught me to how to quilt. I am patchworking scraps of a broken theology one step at a time. It’s a work in progress. I don’t know what the finished product will look like even though I am the designer, creator, and seamstress. Maybe there is no finish line—only process. My queer quilt is one that could only be made by stitching together the vignettes left lying on the floor.