Let’s not call it a quilt. I’m afraid that would be an insult to quilters, to the precise, gifted, detail-oriented people who measure and cut and follow patterns and produce symmetric, lyrical mosaics of fabric.
This is not that. Though I still call it a thing of beauty for me, and hopefully for Miles. In the same way spray-painted-macaroni art is beautiful to the mama who receives it.
Let’s not call it a blanket, either. It’s more than that thing you throw over your legs when you get chilled.
Let’s call this patchwork therapy. Upcycled, saved from the fabric graveyard, stitched from the depths of my soul. Because, as I sifted through the scraps looking for the right colors and shapes, piecing together each one, I noticed my perspective shifted. In the beginning, I wanted everything to fit perfectly, but the more I sewed, the more accepting I became of every odd piece. I rescued scraps from the throwaway pile. I wanted to incorporate each one, even the ugly, jagged, difficult ones.
Yes, you there with the fraying edges that barely hold a stitch. You with the indecipherable pattern. You have a place here.
I can get through this. I can make it work. It is not perfect. But it is lovely.
It is not square and it does not lie flat. The binding is crooked, but it does its job. The too-small swath of fleece on the back should hold some warmth, at least while Miles is small and can tuck underneath. It is cozy and pleasing to the eye and it exudes love and comfort.
I’m proud of it. I think I might need to make one more.