A Project for Better Journalism chapter
Follow us on Twitter @LKWDTimes
Creative Corner

“Mismatched” by Sara Jarecke “Sew Me a Story” Writing Contest

It had been there all my life, as far back as I can remember.  Considering how old it was, it was a wonder as to why it was there on the rocking chair (which was also ancient) and not shoved in a box in the attic.  Mom hated when I called it old because “Grandma made it when I was fifteen-it’s not like I’m that old!”

Honestly, it was the ugliest quilt I’d ever seen.

If you could even call it that.  It was filled mostly with random prints, the kind you see when you go to Joann Fabrics or Michaels or some other old lady craft store.  There were squares with Snow White, Ice Cream, Cars (minivans, to be exact), Dora, Music notes, and squares with solid colors, like hot pink and orange.  It was like a blind old lady had walked in there with determination and walked out with a handful of mismatching cloth. And then there were the weird squares, the ones that couldn’t have possibly come from Joann Fabrics.  One that was like the texture of a rope, no, literally a rope spread out to take up the space of the entire square. Then there were the four colorful squares of a baby blanket that Grandma apparently made herself.

It was weird and kinda hurt my eyes to look at.

The thing that made it even weirder was how comfortable it was.  One day, about six years ago, when I was eight, I was sick and ended up falling asleep on the couch.  When I woke up, congested and groggy and shivering, it was a pleasant surprise to feel that a soft, comfortable blanket had been draped over me.  It kept the warmth inside, like this tiny pocket of sun, and smelled like chocolate chip cookies. After blinking a few times, I looked to find that it was mom’s quilt, and had to shut my eyes again because looking at the hot pink stung.  

So yeah, it was weird, kinda funny to look at.  But I can honestly say it was the most comfortable thing I’ve ever napped in.  Even Aunt Sara claims that it can put her to sleep, and she’s a nap-hating night owl.  “Love is a verb,” she would always say in her poetic voice. “A quilt stays only a quilt until a story is woven into its thread, until you can feel the love bursting at its seams.”  I think it means something, but I don’t know. Her poetry is also weird. I hope I figure it out someday.

Google+