For Chris Worland


Begin with a story, one you have
perhaps heard told several times,
one that has become a touchstone
from the teller's past. Remember
the story involved a double wedding
ring, that these served as pastel roads
where the child ran her toy cars
when she was confined to bed with
illness. Recall that the teller's favorite
color is blue, the deep funnels of morning
glories, the New Mexico sky. Think how
she loves maps, the curvy lines that wind
through places called Big Chimney, Kentuck,
Abiquiu, and Rugby. And animals: the rabbit,
the cat, the hedgehog, a parrot named Mango.
Let Route 119 be the road that takes you to
the heart of the story, the grandmother
who quilted those wedding rings, the mother
who threw them away because bindings
were frayed, seams were unsewn. You
know what a loss that was, though you were
not there. You know how history shows
itself in cloth, how one slip of fabric recalls
The War, another the Sunday dress, one
the baby who never came. Sew
your own story with the teller's story,
the squares, the prints you choose,
the double ring, one yours, one hers.
This quilt you make makes a new story,
a palimpsest, the old story showing through
here, and there, and over there. When you tie
off the final thread, tie your years together,
those past, those to come. When you give
this gift, you stitch up the old wound.