They were all garbage
The pieces of cloth
The swatches of plaid
Muslin
Silk
Velveteen
Corduroy
Even polka-dot
Miscellaneous buttons
A minutiae of textures
Colors of a painter's pallet
Bent
Metal
Plastic
Round
Misshapen
Threads of spools found in
Thrown-out purses
Ten-cent bins
Deceased cloth
blue
red
black
(your favorite) burgundy
Separate they were ugly
A pile of forlorn
Unwanted
Trash
The pile of refuse sitting
On the kitchen table
Coupled with a needle
And secretly I hated it
That you made us wear the
Remnants of a farmer's shirt
Stained with sweat and fatigue
An old man's trousers reeking
Of death and powder
The checkered tablecloth once covered
In crumbs and ant carcasses and
The green stains of grass
Yet I knew why you must do
Such a thing so I never asked
Out of understanding
Pity
Fear
As you wove the needle
In and out
Through the pieces of material
So intently
Frowning in concentration
As pink floral merged with
Pastel yellow and a kiss of lace
Slowly
Painstakingly
You labored
Under the dim electric light
For me to have a
Dress imbibed with the memories
Of a little girl picking Brown-Eyed Susans
Barefoot and blissfully ignorant
A doily reminiscent of tea-time
Laughing and chattering
Of a young lady's skittish apprehensions
As she takes his own moist hand
I wore memories
Of July heat
In the bowels of Wisconsin winter
Silent smiles
At Grandpa's funeral (he loved to tell jokes, remember?)
Tree branches
When I needed something to hold onto
And when there was nothing else to cover me
Your tablecloth,
Checkered
Red and white
Faded in one corner
Purple in the middle where I spilled my glass of grape juice
Enveloped my fast-growing form perfectly,
A jacket lined with thick white wool
And an inscription in bright blue thread:
I clothe you with the pieces of my heart.