"Your grandmother made that quilt for you," said my mother.
Ever since my grandmother passed away, I had collected all of my memories of her. I remembered all the days that I sat on the porch with her, listening to her tell of her childhood in China, roaming with four of her friends. There was no fear of robbers or theives, kidnappers or ticksters. People were friendly and honest. When she was telling her story, she knit the quilt.
Every night, before I went to bed, I held the quilt to my chest and prayed for my grandmother.
Three months later, I learned that we were moving, so I packed up all my possesions. I took especially good care to pack my grandmother's quilt. My box became a little bulgy, but I knew my mom would understand. When we left, I checked in the back of the van to make sure everyhting was there. The van was jam-packed with neat square boxes.
After two more years of living at my new home, my father got a job offer; one he couldn't refuse. When we were moving, we couldn't find a cheap van with a lot of space that went as far as we were travelling, so we had very little space. My mom was helping me decide what to bring. She picked up my grandmother's quilt and said, "Why do you need to bring this?"
I grabbed the quilt back and stuffed it into the box. "It's my grandmother's quilt." I declared, "It means a lot to me."
My mom looked at me, and for a long time neither of us said anything, then, my mom said, "Honey, we left your grandmother's quilt at the old house a long time ago. This isn't your grandmother's quilt."
I guess I'll continue this later.
