Susan Wiggs - The Goodbye Quilt

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Wanted: a needle swift enough to sew this poem into a blanket.

Charles Simic, Serbian-American poet

How do you say goodbye to a piece of your heart? If youre a quilter, you have a time-honored way to express yourself.

A quilt is an object of peculiar intimacy. By virtue of the way it is created, every inch of the fabric is touched. Each scrap absorbs the quilters scent and the invisible oils of her skin, the smell of her household and, thanks to the constant pinning and stitching, her blood in the tiniest of quantities. And tears, though she might be loath to admit it.

My adult life has been a patchwork of projects, most of which were fleeting fancies of overreaching vision. I tend to seize on things, only to abandon them due to a lack of time, talent or inclination. There are a few things Im truly good at Jeopardy!, riding a bike, balancing a checkbook, orienteering, making balloon animalsand quilting.

Im good at pulling together little bits and pieces of disparate objects. The process suits me. Each square captures my attention like a new landscape. Everything about quilting suits me, an occupation for hands and heart and imagination.

Other things didnt work out so wellSzechuan cooking, topiary gardening, video games and philately come to mind.

My main project, my ultimate work-in-progress, is Molly, of course. And today shes going away to college, clear across the country. CorrectionIm taking her away, delivering her like an insured parcel to a new life.

Hence the quilt. What better memento to give my daughter than a handmade quilt to keep in her dorm room, a comforter stitched with all the memories of her childhood? Itll be a tangible reminder of who she is, where she comes fromand maybe, if Im lucky, it will offer a glimpse of her dreams.

All my quilting supplies come from a shop in town called Pins & Needles. The place occupies a vintage building on the main street. Its been in continuous operation for more than five decades. As a child, I passed its redbrick and figured concrete storefront on my way to school each day, and I still remember the kaleidoscope of fabrics in the window, flyers announcing classes and raffles, the rainbow array of rich-colored thread, the treasure trove of glittering notions. My first job as a teenager was at the shop, cutting fabric and ringing up purchases.

When Molly started school, I worked there part time, as much for the extra money as for the company of women who frequented Pins & Needles. Fall is wonderful at the fabric shop, a nesting time, when people are making Halloween costumes, Thanksgiving centerpieces and Christmas decorations. People are never in a hurry in a fabric shop. They browse. They talk about their projects, giving you a glimpse of their lives.

The shop is a natural gathering place for women. The people Ive met there through the years have become my friends. Customers and staff members stand around the cutting tables to discuss projects, give demonstrations and workshops, offer advice on everything from quilting techniques to child rearing to marriage. The ladies there all know about my idea to make a quilt as a going-away gift for Molly. Some of them even created pieces for me to add, embroidered with messages of Good Luck and Congratulations.

You can always tell whats going on in a womans life based on the quilt shes working on. The new-baby quilts are always light and soft, the wedding quilts pure and clean, filled with tradition, as though a beautiful design might be an inoculation against future strife. House warming quilts tend to be artistic, suitable for hanging on an undecorated wall. The most lovingly created quilts of all are the memory quilts, often created as a group project to commemorate a significant event, help with healing or to celebrate a life.

Ive always thought a quilt held together with a womans tears to be the strongest of all.

Nonquilters have a hard time getting their heads around the time and trouble of a project like this. My friend Cherisse, who has three kids, said, Linda, honey, Im just glad to get them out of the houseup and running, with no criminal record. Another friend confessed, My daughter would only ruin it. Shes so careless with her things. My neighbor Erin, who started law school when her son entered first grade, now works long hours and makes a ton of money. I wish I had the time, she said wistfully when I showed her my project.

What Ive found is that you make time for the things that matter to you. Everyone has the time. Its just a question of deciding what to do with that time. For some people, its providing for their family. For others, its finding that precarious balance between taking care of business and the soul-work of being there for husband, children, friends and neighbors.

Im supposed to be making the last-minute preparations before our departure on the epic road trip, but instead I find myself dithering over the quilt, contemplating sashing and borders and whether my color palette is strong and balanced. Although the top is pieced, the backing and batting in place, there is still much work to be done. Embellishments to add. It might not be proper quilting technique, but quilting is an art, not a science. My crafters bag is filled with snippets of fabric culled from old, familiar clothes, fabric toys and textiles that have been outgrown, but were too dear or too damaged to take to the Goodwill bin. Im a big believer in charity bins. Just because a garment is no longer suitable doesnt mean it couldnt be right for someone else. On the other hand, some things are not meant to be parted with.

I sift through the myriad moments of Mollys childhood, which I keep close to my heart, like flowers from a prized bouquet, carefully pressed between sheets of blotter paper. I fold the quilt and put it in the bag with all the bright bits and mementosa tiny swatch of a babydolls nightie, an official-looking Girl Scout badge, a precious button that is the only survivor of her first Christmas dress. So many memories lie mute within this long-handled bag, waiting for me to use them as the final embellishments on this work of art.

Ill never finish in time.

You can do this. I try to give myself a pep talk, but the words fall through my mind and trickle away. This is unexpected, this inability to focus. A panic I havent been expecting rises up in me, grabbing invisibly at my chest. Breathe, I tell myself. Breathe.

The house already feels different; a heaviness hangs in the drapes over the old chintz sofa. Sounds echo on the wooden floorsa suitcase being rolled to the front porch, a set of keys dropped on the hall table. An air of change hovers over everything.