Follow the Blackbirds

Saving Scraps

14 Saving Scraps i. Side by side on a nubby brown couch, they sat, blue flickering light of a television reflecting on their faces, their eyes focused on their laps. The old woman pulled a long scrap of red cloth from a multi-colored pile on the coffee table and held it to the lamp. Content with her choice, she skillfully pinned a brown paper pattern onto the flowery red fabric. She flexed her right hand. It took only a few seconds to cut the piece. The girl fumbled with a small cardboard square, shifting and moving and placing it just so on the blue and white gingham then poked her finger on the pin. Without even looking at her, the woman said, Your mother couldn’t ever do nothin’ right either. ii. This time of evening was our favorite. All day on my feet and finally I can sit 15 for awhile. Ten years now that TV keeps me company. I been saving scraps and have enough now to piece another quilt. Flower garden this time. These little colored pieces fill my evenings. Ten years ago I made a quilt. Khaki and denim and wool. His work pants. I held each pair a long time before I could rip the seams. Cut big pieces like his hands. Smoothed each block carefully remembering his warmth, his strong legs. Stitched the pieces together that winter then tied that quilt with red embroidery thread. Each knot tied twice to hold tight what was left behind. Ten years now since he held his only 16 grandchild on this couch. His smile so wide I laughed out loud. Recovered the chair and the couch. But here she is, a constant reminder that he is gone. I sit here alone, with bits of material and thread, making something out of nothing. iii. The first letter I ever wrote: Dear grandma, I want to come live at your house. They treat me like I don’t belong here. I put my clothes in my orange suitcase. Please come soon. I was in first grade. She came all right. She waved that letter in my mother’s face. I don’t remember what she said, just her figure framed by the front door and sunlight. Now I spend most weekends at her house. She picks me up on Fridays after work and we go to the grocery store for potatoes, beans, and apple pie. 17 Mostly it’s the same every time. We watch tv and eat a slice of bread dipped in milk before we go to bed. On Sundays we go to church. At night, when she thinks I’m asleep, I watch the red ember of her cigarette glow and dim in the dark. She never smokes in daylight. This time, she tried, again, to show me how to cut quilt blocks, but the scratchy brown couch makes me itch. I poke my finger and it bleeds. So many little pieces. So many mistakes. ...