My mother is an artist.
When I was little she’d create crafts and projects for my sisters and I.
Ripping old sheets into shreds and teaching us how to braid. We’d keep our cotton strips in labeled lunch paper bags.
Off we’d go searching for pretty wild flowers or vibrant fall leaves then place them between two sheets of wax paper and iron them for the purpose of preservation.
She’d sew shorts and skirts and piggy bank pink pantsuits, all three of her daughters matching.
On Sundays looking like triplets sitting in a row on a church pew.
She’d knit mittens and scarves and socks. And teach her daughters. My first project was a a length of spool knitted rope I spiraled into a mat big enough for my Barbie. My second, a blue scarf for my stuffed toy dog.
Now she quilts. Creating beautiful pieces made of scraps of cloth. Dusty rose and sage green stars with black lays folded on my bed. Another, a jeweled tone Ragtime comfort in deep greens, blues and reds.
It’s softness soothes me when I feel sick or lonely.
Quilted Christmas Angels and snowmen hanging on our walls. Table runners and place mats in autumnal colors.
Her artistry exists in all of her children’s homes. Gentle reminders of her love and thoughts embedded in each piece, ultimately in each stitch.
A legacy of brilliant colours.