The Peace Quilt

In a village between the sea and the mountain, a girl was born. Her name was Daughter.

Like all children, like you little one, she had a talent. But it was hidden. Until one day, when she sat at the foot of her mother’s chair watching the village women’s hands dive like fish and rise like birds across bright strips of cloth. Mother saw how closely the girl watched. She handed her a thin, shining needle. “Sharp,” mother said. “Be careful.” Daughter slipped a slender thread through the needle’s eye. The women nodded knowingly to each other as Daughter’s hands dove like a fish and rose like a bird across the scrap of cloth her mother gave her. “What talent,” they said.

One day a man came to the door. After he left, father spoke to the family, “Tonight you and all the other women and children must go up the mountain. Do not return until one of us comes for you.” That night, while the moon hid behind swollen clouds, Daughter, her mother, and all the other women and children of the village climbed up past the vineyards and olive groves, bringing only as much as they could carry. Daughter could not bring her sewing basket. She only had a single needle tucked into the sleeve of her dress.

At the top of the mountain, the women and children wondered when they would see the men again. Daughter grew tired of waiting and decided to make a quilt. “I will call it Strength,” she said. “But you have no cloth!” the women replied. “I will take your sorrow. That will be my cloth,” said Daughter. “But you have no thread!” they said. “I will take your worry. That will be my thread,” she answered. And so she did. And as she wove and spun and snipped and sewed, the villagers began to feel a surge of resolve flow through their bones. When she was finished, the quilt was gray as stone and blue as the sea with lines of bright gold running through it.

Not long after, a man arrived. He was tired and hurt and filled with despair. “We have nowhere to go. We are surrounded. The only way out is by sea.” The women began to shake and cry. Daughter grew tired of the fear and decided to make a quilt. “I will call it Courage,” she said. “But you have no cloth!” the women replied. “I will take your distress. That will be my cloth,” said Daughter. “But you have no thread!” they said. “I will take your despair. That will be my thread,” she answered. And so she did. And as she wove and spun and snipped and sewed, the villagers began to feel a surge of bravery flow through their bones. When she was finished, the quilt was the deep purple of wine and the ruby red of pomegranates with circles of bronze.

One day another man came up the mountain. His clothes were in tatters and he walked with a limp. But he was smiling. “A ship has arrived! We are saved! Gather your children and come quickly with me!” And the women and children of the village followed the man down, down, down the mountain to the sea where a large ship waited. “But where are the others? Where is my father?” Daughter asked. The man laughed and Daughter saw the whiteness of his teeth against his nut-brown skin. “He is there waiting,” he said, pointing to the ship. So the villagers climbed into the boat and stood on deck holding hands until the mountain was just a small, dark speck at the edge of the sea.

The ship brought the villagers to a place with tents and dust and hunger where the hot air shimmered like water. They were unhappy. They missed their home. Their children were always crying for food. The villagers were angry and wondered what they had done to deserve this. Daughter grew tired of feeling discouraged and decided to make a quilt. “I will call it Hope,” she said. “But you have no cloth!” the people replied. “I will take your regret. That will be my cloth,” said Daughter. “But you have no thread!” they said. “I will take your rage. That will be my thread,” she answered. And so she did. And as she wove and spun and snipped and sewed, the villagers began to feel a surge of anticipation flow through their bones. When she was finished, the quilt was the bright white of the sand and the glowing orange of the sun with squares of silver.

Soon the villagers decided to find a new home. Somewhere warm. Somewhere with a deep blue sea and mountains. Somewhere with olives and grapes and pomegranates. And they did.

Years passed. One day Daughter sat in her favorite chair listening to her grandchildren speak in a language that was not her own. She worried that her history and traditions would not take root in this new land. That her children’s children were too soft and spoiled. Daughter grew tired of her frustration and decided to make a quilt. “I will call it Memory,” she said. “But you have no cloth, grandmother!” her grandchildren replied. “I will take your apathy. That will be my cloth,” said Daughter. “But you have no thread, grandmother!” they said. “I will take your ignorance. That will be my thread,” she answered. And so she did. And as she wove and spun and snipped and sewed, her grandchildren began to feel a surge of understanding and respect flow through their bones. When she was finished, the quilt was the dark green of an olive and the rich brown of coffee with stars of copper.

Not long afterward, Daughter felt her time had come. But her family did not want her to go. They wept softly. Daughter grew tired of the sadness and decided to make a quilt. “This will be my last quilt. I will call it Peace,” she said. “But you are too sick to sew!” her family replied. “Go to my cedar chest and take out the four quilts inside. Bring them to me.” Her family did as she asked. “That is my cloth,” she said pointing at Strength, Courage, Hope, and Memory. “But you have no thread!” they said. “I will take your love and sorrow. That will be my thread,” she answered. And so she did. And as she snipped and sewed, her family began to feel a deep calm flow through their bones. When she was finished, the quilt was radiant with the colors of the village between the sea and the mountain. And Daughter closed her eyes.

If you liked this: Yes, I wrote this. Today. It all started with another story I wrote for M about giving up the pacifier (I might post that one another time, if you're interested). After I finished, the idea for this popped in my head. I decided I wanted to write something about quilting, in honor of my mom whose rheumatoid arthritis has returned and caused her poor hands to swell up like balloons. She's an avid quilter but can't do much right now. Anyway, what started out as a story for M about her grandma making quilts turned into something completely different and not necessarily for young children. Oh well. This is still for my mom...but also for my Armenian grandfather.
If you thought this sucked: I have no idea who put this piece of crap together!!