It was created a memory at a time. A scrap piece of fabric from when Daniel was a little boy, another scrap from when Caitlyn was born. More scraps collected from the growing years - torn t-shirts, favourite blankets too tattered for use, ruined bed sheets from playing Indians in the yard, ripped sheets from camping trips and that one sleepover that ended up in a cat fight. Then they had grown up and left the nest, and she started collecting scraps from the homeless centre she volunteered at, the church do's she cleared up after, the things her parents left behind when they passed on.
By the time she was done when she was seventy, it swarmed her with the memories of yesteryears, burying her in a flurry of nostalgia. It was thick and heavy with both tears and laughter and when her daughter visited, Caitlyn secretly wondered if she had gone slightly mad. I'm fine, she assured her daughter, laughing almost guiltily as she sent Caitlyn away with freshly baked cookies and a promise to stayover if she felt too lonely. I'm not lonely, she had replied. I have my quilt.
The voices were strong in her head as she snuggled down into it, allowing the past to engulf her in its embrace.