The Quilters
These women cook three squares
from scratch, from before the sun
peaks over the long horizon
until it sends its last daily blaze
setting west. They grasp
gleaming counters despite the glint
of dust hanging ever-present
in the air around them. Kids
home from classes start chores
as constant as the clock
ticking away the days over the sink
in every kitchen. Bingo
and bake sales, simple pleasures,
like potluck dinners Sundays
and the sound of husbands
tinkering with tractor or car engines
mean more to these than the trend
for short skirts or platinum hair.
Saturday afternoons, they circle
in the basement of the Baptist church,
a round of quilters making memories
for the town’s babies and newlyweds,
these patterns, more than swatches of cloth,
but fibers of blood and tears
that pulse in their very cells.
Ramona Levacy
April 29, 2015
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