Friday, July 22, 2011

making love that lasts

in which our plucky heroine continues to cogitate on the patient faithfulness of inanimate objects...

In the big bedroom of Acorn Cottage, the bedframe is made of wood, and manila rope; the two-by timbers salvaged from other lifetimes and other folks, the rope gathered in with a tale, the headboard and bedposts shaped by axe and knife, carved by hand and heart. If lucky, I'll sleep in it most every night 'till they carry me out feet first. In darkness I run my fingers across the horses and houses that are the carven headboard, and remember a younger self, who drew the images, and loved a man who made the bed, though that chapter, the one that brought the bed into being, is over. And when I rest in the ground, between the clay and the clover, instead of between flannel sheets and soft blankets, the bed will go on into an unknown future, carrying stories in silence, the patina of use, the marks of our hands...
On the bed, now, is a quilt. An old quilt, older than I, older than my parents. Longago there was a woman, that I never met; she took fabric and thread and the skill of her hands, and love, and made a thing of beauty. I'll never know her thoughts, or hopes, or what she wished for. Asleep under the quilt, ease and comfort hold me all the way to dreamland and back. When G passed the two quilts to me I looked up at him; filled with wordless emotion I asked "are you sure?" (thinking - you want me to have this!?). His reply was that it was made for use, not for storage.

Honor bright to have this piece of his befores in my daily life, honor bright to share the pieces of our time that life allows us. For in truth, the love made by our hands and the love made by our hearts, is made for use, and not for storage...


  1. I love you dear heart!


  2. Oh, Alison! How special! I'm crying. And it takes me back to a similar quilt, on a sunlit wooden floor in Denver, with two baby brothers rolling around on it. It was the quilt made by my father's mother, when my parents got married. I asked why we used it when it was so special, and was answered that it should be used and enjoyed, not stored away. My father was able to look at pieces of it, and remember who had worn some of the pieces.

  3. Alison, that is one of the dearest compositions of feeling I have ever had the priveledge to read. Old love new love, treasured.