in which my mother teaches me how to mend a quilt

"there's a better way,"
she says, squatting next to her
work. "but it's too hard."

she runs her fingers
along the stitches, reading
them blindly like braille.

"see how this line is
closer and tidier ? more
even ?" i nod, "yeah."

"those others are more
of a hem-stitch." she goes on,
pushing herself up.

"you try the next line."
she laughs while i knot the thread.
the actual sewing

takes me over an
hour, and looks nothing like
her neat marching ants.

"i like how you took
care of this corner." she says
kindly, somehow proud.

i pout a little.
"it's lumpy, like scars." she shakes
her head, "it's sturdy."