The Patchwork Quilt



The woman who opened the door to go out on that frosty morning was a bitter, unpleasant person. If you were to ask a neighbor about her, the kindest words you would hear would most likely be “lonely” or “angry” with maybe a “disagreeable” put in for effect. For the most part, they would be accurate.
As she moved to step out the door she noticed something on the stoop. It looked to be a bundle of cloth, multicolored rags.
“Who would leave their garbage on my stoop?“ she muttered, “Whoever it was can just come and clean it up. Imagine the nerve, people leaving their junk all over the place.”
As her eyes focused, she saw that the bundle was not rags, not by any means. It appeared to be a quilt. When she bent over to pick it up, she found that it indeed was a quilt, and a quilt of some quality. The differing fabrics that comprised the quilt were of various textures and colors. It seemed that no two pieces were the same, yet the overall effect was pleasing to her eyes.
“For heaven’s sake,” she exclaimed as she carried it inside, her trip forgotten, “what a beautiful quilt. Who would leave such a thing at my door?”
She shrugged out of her overcoat, placed it in its usual place by the door. Her wrinkled face had a look of confusion and consternation on it. It was not that she didn’t like the quilt, but people were not in the habit of giving her anything, except a hard time. As she looked again at the quilt, she thought of who could have possible left it for her.
“Not even a card,” she said. “Well, maybe that’s for the best. I wouldn’t want to be beholden to anyone.”
In all of her years, she could only remember a few times when she was not alone. Even her mother had given her to an orphanage, left to fend for herself. For well over seventy years, her life had been one of loneliness and hollow emotions. Love had forsaken her, joy abandoned her, so anger and disagreeableness became her companions of choice.


As the woman sat in the comfort of her overstuffed chair, she clutched the quilt to her frail body. Warmth spread over her, as though the quilt was creating its own heat. That was when she “heard” the voice.
“Nice quilt, isn’t it?” she heard.
The woman looked around, startled. She knew that she had heard a voice, but there was no one there.
“Who’s there?” she asked. “What are you doing in my house? Get out. NOW!”
When there was no reply, she started to wonder if she had, in fact, heard anything. After a few nervous glances about the room, she settled back into her chair. The quilt, once again resting upon her body, spread soothing warmth over her.
As she began to nod off the voice said, “Come now, Edda, you shouldn’t raise your voice to a friend.”
Eyes wide open, she shouted, “Who are you? I know someone is there. How come I can’t see you? And… how did you know my name. Come out, I say.”
“But I am right here. I am the spirit of the quilt. Your quilt.”
“Stuff and nonsense, Mr. Voice. Quit playing games. I’m in no mood to be playing games with someone who won’t show themselves. Come out, you coward. Spirit of the quilt, indeed.”
“But Edda,” the voice started.
“There you go again, who told you my name. I told you to come out, now I’m telling you to get out. And don’t come back.”
“Edda, I know your name like I know your life. I am the spirit of the quilt, and the quilt is your life.”
Edda peered around the chair and under the table, looking for the voice and whoever was making it. She could see nothing that was any different in the room, except for the quilt. With resignation, she decided to humor the voice.
“So, you say you’re the spirit of this quilt, and the quilt is my life? How can a quilt be a life? Huh? Answer me that, Mr. Smartypants Voice.” She glanced around, hoping to see if anyone was there.
“The quilt represents your life. The pieces are actually pieces of your life. If you were to touch any particular piece, you would see the joys and love from that time in your life.”
“Ha! Caught you there. I have no love in my life, no love at all. My whole life has been nothing but bitterness and sorrow and pain.”
The voice whispered, barely loud enough to hear, “You are so wrong, so wrong. There has been love in your life, love abounding, but you were so caught up in your hurt you couldn’t feel it.”
“No one loved me,” she cried, “Not even my mother. She left me in an orphanage and went away, leaving me all alone. And I am still alone, even now. There has been no love in my life. Get that through your head, if you have one.”
“Edda, do you want to know the true story of your mother? Would you like to see what really happened?”
“I know the truth. My mother left me just like my father left us both. Left alone, all alone.”
The voice of the quilt spoke softly. “Edda, touch that blue square. The one made of gingham.”
“This one? Why, it looks familiar. Yes, it looks like fabric from a dress I once wore. It looks like… it is! It’s the dress I wore when my mother took me to the orphanage.” As she touched the square, her fingers began to warm, the heat spreading up and all over her body. She closed her eyes, and then she could see, see into the past.


It was a room, a small space with a desk and two chairs, one in front and one in back of the desk. Her mother was sitting in one of the chairs, and she could see herself, standing next to her mother. A lady sat behind the desk, and she was talking.
“As you have seen, this facility is one of the best. We see to the needs of each child individually. They are brought up to be obedient, responsible, and correct in manners.”
“I’m sure you will do your best.” said her mother, “I just wish this wasn’t necessary. If only…”
“I know, if only your husband had survived the war. Things would have been different then.”
“And now, with me in this condition, well, the doctors give me a couple of months at best. The cancer is spreading throughout my body, even as we speak. You are my only hope that Edda will grow up proper.”
The lady at the desk asked, “Are you sure there is no one else? No sister, brothers, aunts, or grandparents that she could be with?”
“No, there’s no one left in either family. Not even… no, there’s no one at all.” The mother started to softly cry, small tears coursing down her cheeks. Edda patted her on the leg, trying to comfort her.
The lady found a box of tissue, and handed the mother one. “All of your paperwork is finished, and we are prepared to take your child at this time. The proceeds from your estate will see her through until she graduates from high school. Then she will be on her own. If there is any residual, Edda will have it available to her at that time.”
“Thank you. Could I stay with her a while? I don’t have to check in to the clinic until tomorrow.”
“Stay all day, if you like. We’ll even have dinner for the both of you in the dining room.”
“Oh, and one more thing?”
“Yes?”
“Will you make sure she knows her mother loved her, to the end?”
“Of course, Mrs. Leonard. Of course.”


Edda’s eyes slowly opened. There were tears running down her face. “She loved me? She didn’t leave me because she didn’t want me?”
“You saw the truth,” said the voice. “Your mother was dying, and didn’t have long to live. I think she only lasted another week, at most. It broke her heart to leave you.”
“And my father?” “Your father died in the war, fighting for his country. He only saw you once, when he came home on furlough. He cried for joy when he held you. He loved you, too.”
In a whisper she continued, “I was loved. I never knew. I was loved.” To the quilt she said, “Why didn’t they tell me? Why didn’t the orphanage tell me about my mother?”
“They did, but you were still so young, and the adjustments were very difficult. You just didn’t understand.”
She sat there, stunned with the revelation of what had transpired so many years ago. “But, what about the rest of my life? No one else cared for me, did they?”
The quilt was silent.
“Quilt? Are you there? Say something,” cried Edda.
The quilt whispered, “Do you really want to see the loves in your life? To see the loves that you ignored and chased away?”
“Yes, tell me I was loved. Show me, please.”
“Very well,” said the quilt, “Touch the light yellow square, yes, that one right there.”
“Why, it looks like, no, it can’t be. Quilt, there must be some mistake. This looks like the dress I wore, or was going to wear, to the prom.” She reached for the square, but stopped. “This is not right, that night was terrible. It has to be a mistake. No one showed love to me that night.”
“Touch the square and see if there I am in error.”
Edda reached out with her finger and gingerly stroked the yellow square. Again, warmth spread through her body, from her finger to her heart.


Young Edda was standing at the top of the stairs near the door, her heart pounding with anticipation. Her bright yellow dress hung smartly from her lean body, the color allowing her face to glow. She kept looking out the window, waiting for Walter to show. Finally, someone had shown some interest in her. All through school, all those many years, she mostly sat alone, both in class and in the cafeteria. It was as if there was an aura about her that kept people away. Now, though, someone had broken through that atmosphere of loneliness. Walter had asked her to the prom. Mrs. Vegal, her foster mother, had helped her select the right dress for such an occasion. Now, standing by the window, she felt emotions that had been suppressed all these years. A trace of hope, of yearning, of … could it be… love? She thought about Walter, wondering what it was that drew her to him. His looks were acceptable; his eyes, if not dreamy, were at least clear and bright; and he had a strong chin, didn’t he? She knew, instinctively that, although Walter was still a boy, he would grow into a steady, strong, manly type of man.

“What is keeping him?” she muttered. She continued to peer out the window, hoping for a glimpse of him as he came out of his parent’s house. Walter lived down and across the street from the house she lived in with Mrs. Vegal, who took her in when the orphanage closed down. “He is almost a half hour late.”
Then she saw him, in his dark blue suit. He was, no, it couldn’t be. He was standing on the front porch of his parents house, holding another woman. How could he? She looked out the window, just to make sure. It was him, with his arms around another woman, ushering her into his parent’s car. This was uncalled for. How could he do such a thing. She had looked forward to this day for two months, and he was going to… at this point her eyes misted over. Her heart broke in two and her blood ran cold. Edda made a vow that no matter how much he tried, he could never, ever, make up for what he had done to her this night.

Edda slowly made her way upstairs, took off her dress, leaving it in a crumpled mess on the floor, and fell on the bed sobbing for love lost and hope gone away. Mrs. Vegal tried to comfort her, to no avail. The next day young Walter came knocking on the door, but Edda would have nothing to do with him. She shut him out of her life and would not even allow his name to be spoken in her presence. She didn’t let him speak to her, even though he tried. His letters would be tossed, unopened, his phone calls hung up on, and when he tried to approach her on the street or at school, she turned the other way and ran. She never spoke to him ever again.


Edda’s eyes flashed open with anger burning. “See, I told you there was no love there. Nothing at all. Quilt, you are a fraud.”
“Edda, what you did not see was Walter escorting his sister to the hospital, where she lost the child she was carrying. It was an emergency, and he was the only one who could respond at that time. His desire was to be with you, but he also had a responsibility to his sister and her needs. He tried to tell you so many times but you had shut him out. His love for you, and your rejection of him, broke him in his spirit, and he was never the happy fellow he was when you knew him. You broke his spirit, and his heart.”
“But he never, I didn’t hear, how could he… oh quilt, what have I done? Could I have been so callous that I never allowed him to explain himself? I took for granted that he had left me, jilted me, broke my heart, and I never allowed him to explain. It’s my fault, it’s all my fault.”
“Edda,” the quilt said, “you have been loved by many, many people, but you have rejected them all. No one could break through the wall of anger and fear you have built up around you.”
“But, what about Walter? Is it too late to see him, talk to him, make amends? Quilt? Can I do that?”
The quilt responded, “I’m sorry, Edda, but Walter passed three years ago. He went in his sleep, alone, as he spent all his years. You see, Edda, Walter never go over you. His desire was to be with you, and he never formed another attachment. He died with your name on his lips.”
“Quilt, what have I done?”
“You have lived your life as you saw fit, and ignored the love all around you.”
“You mean there’s more?” she asked?
“Yes, much more. Are you ready to see the love that was with you your entire life?”
“Yes, quilt, yes, I am ready. Show me, please?”


That night was spent with Edda touching pieces of the quilt, living and reliving parts of her life that represented the many loves that she had spurned and shut off. There were times of joy, times of repenting, times of refusal and acceptance. The quilt patiently described, explained, and demonstrated the things in her life that she didn’t know, or had refused to see.


When the morning sun kissed the window of her room, it glistened off of her face. Edda had breathed her last that night, clutching the quilt to her body, a smile for once on her face, knowing she had been loved.


The end.