The weather turned chilly suddenly today,
Bringing drizzly rain and a foggy sky.
A memory from my youth flashed across my mind,
From the rickety house on Westwood Lane;
I slept in the old oak bed,
The one my mother was born in,
Burrowed under quilts made by three generations of my family,
A Hard Times, a Rag, and a Wedding Ring,
My grandmother and great grandmother’s quilts bearing the comforting perfume of age,
I can still see their faded colors, feel the texture of the fabric against my skin.
Quilts to be used, not to be hung.
There was no money for heat and I could see my breath in the frigid room,
I remember the weight of the quilts and the occasional protestations of the old metal box springs.
I felt warm and safe,
Wrapped in the love of generations.
My mother sat on the edge of the bed,
Prayers and stories,
“Sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite!”
Giggles,
And a kiss on the forehead.
Our ritual in good times and bad.
How grateful I am for these gifts as I age,
These precious memories of a childhood,
Long gone,
But forever in my heart.
The View from Here 