Gemotions

The vibrant colors of the yarn exploded in the sunlight. My mother’s quilting was her life. Her quilts, each a patchwork of memories and stories, adorned every bed in the house. Her quilts were treasured possessions. My son, Ben, now 10, had inherited the love of the craft.

However, Ben was quiet today. He knew the hospital’s waiting room needed quilts. But the thought of it seemed to trouble him. He wasn't sure.

I watched him, a gentle ache in my chest. He was growing up, and the world was starting to be more complicated. "Want to see that movie?" I asked him, remembering his favourite.

Ben shook his head. "No," he said, his voice soft. "Can we... can we make a quilt for Mrs. Gable?"

The old woman had been a pillar of the community, but was unwell. I smiled, a wave of warmth washing over me. "Absolutely," I said. "We can." And together, we started planning.