A Quilt Sewn Just for You

Today Pegman took us to Aosta Valley, Italy. What a beautiful place!

Isabelle, something’s wrong with your Grandmother.
Why not call her Mother? What?
Look at her quilt. No pattern. The threads are all off-kilter.
For God’s sake, she’s already done Log Cabin, Flying Geese, Bear Paw. Leave her alone! Let her color outside the lines. Let her be.
It’s not like her. Do you think she has Alzheimer’s?
No more than you or I. Why don’t you ask her what she’s up to? Such beauty in the colors. The velvet textures. The silver thread. Look closely, Mother, look.

Come here, daughter.
I knew Grandma was listening.
See this zig-zag line?
Of course.
The road your father and I traveled to escape Aosta Valley during the war.
The unusual colors?
Unusual?
The colors of the mountains that sheltered our home.
This is . . . beautiful. But you’re scaring me.
Why? There’s a sweet memory in each stitch and every one leads to you.

Missionaries, Guyana 1852

You drug me to this godforsaken place, promising renewal. Instead, I got a scrub board, and laundry hung outside to dry until it is so stiff cardboard would be more comfortable. Look what lye has done to my hands. Look.

Ah, my sweet, you were becoming too soft, too complacent. You rant at no longer having housemaids and gardeners but the money previously wasted on them now helps our village children – provides books, inoculations.

You purchase chickens for people we don’t know.

We have new friends who share food, stories, laughter.

I feel trapped. Water everywhere. Four rivers, an ocean. Mountains with unpronounceable names. The jungle. Take me home.

We leave tomorrow. A kiss.

Tomorrow? I will pack this instant. Oh, how I long to see New York. Thank you, my love, thank you.

Wait, you misunderstand. You and I are traveling deeper inside the jungle. Our help is needed elsewhere.

The Land of Cobblestones

I must admit I’m addicted to Friday Fictioneers, so today I put aside an hour of editing my manuscript to add a story to this mix of wonderful flash fiction writers. Thanks to one and all who find time to read my story.

Siegert pulls the picture from his pocket.
He knows exactly how many cobbles create the path
from his old room to the gardens,
the rectory
to, well, anywhere on the grounds.
He’s counted each with his feet.

Excitement welled when Siegert heard adopted.
But soon he hears,
“The boy’s quite stupid. Rarely talks.”
Silence is golden, they told me so
“He stumbles.”
I cannot see out of my left eye
“No one actually likes him.”
Please, all I want is love

The train whistle blows.
Siegert knows it’s but a ten-hour trip back
to the land of cobblestones and priests.

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