Momma cut the choicest pieces
Of the clothes that we’d outgrow.
Each shred to her was precious;
Every fragment she would sew.
She would stitch each scrap together
Making quilts to keep us warm.
We have snuggled under the covers
Through many a winter storm.
Every quilt she made held memories,
Pieces of each “Sunday best,”
Parts of ties and lace and dresses;
Pieces of my Daddy’s vest.
Though years have come and gone,
I still Have Momma’s quilt with me.
This blue square was my brother’s shirt;
Here’s the dress mom made for me.
That purple was my sister’s dress,
Her favorite color, you know.
It’s funny how a quilt can make
The precious memories flow.
Sometimes I feel the lashings
Of a storm deep in my heart,
With icy winds that chill the bones
And tear my soul apart.
But I delight in finding comfort
In this house my Daddy built;
Nestled warmly in the pieces
Of my life, in Momma’s quilt.
Copyright © 2000 by moleta ruth mccarter. All rights reserved.
