When her husband died she tore
his shirts into tiny squares and
stitched the squares together again.
She made a quilt to cover the bed
where she and her husband slept.
All’s fair where there’s small love.
She turned her grief to art.
Unpicking her grief, restitching
it with death it’s-natural tonal
thread as she
coped with the darkness
and yo-yo moods.
Years later when she died, and
I was folding away that quilt, her
bedroom filled with Dad’s scent.
With his old shirts, Mum had slept
each night in his familiar perfume.
for Miz Quickly’s Words #2 #APoemADay on Twitter © Misky 2021