Hands Of Time

As a little girl, I remember my mother and her friends sitting around a quilt while I lay underneath. I would watch their hands cast shadows across the different color swatches, their needles bobbing up and down. I felt safe listening to their laughter float through the room.As a young woman, I waited with anticipation for the time when I would be allowed to take my place at the quilt. I remember my mother patiently showing me how to stitch and tie. I watched in amazement as her hands glided across the fabric and I longed for the day when I could do what she did.As a mother, I sat listening to the women wander effortlessly through years of shared memories and took comfort in knowing I was not alone. As time passed, I noticed my mother’s hands growing old and I realized for the first time that her worries, her tears, and her laughter were tied into her quilts.As a grandmother, I move a little slower and see a little further. I remember those friends who have gone on before. I appreciate