Family Heirloom
by Grace Oliveri
Adelphi University
Grace Oliveri is an English major and philosophy minor at Adelphi University pursuing a career in education. She thanks everyone for their support, and can’t wait to see what the future holds!
In my room lies a colorful quilt–a family heirloom sewn by those before me. Passed down generation by generation, the quilt shrouds me in warmth and comfort in the coldest of nights.
At the very bottom, the quilt begins a soft red–the color of cotton-candy-sunsets that paint the night sky and softly shed the last of their light on my tired face. Even as my eyes flutter shut atop my pillow, and shadows creep across the walls, I can feel the safety of the setting sun. From under my quilt, the red fabric looks like a new beginning beckoning on the horizon.
As the quilt stretches, the red fabric turns a bright orange–the color of aged and coffee-stained book pages, which have given wandering stories a place to reside. From long-ago tales of struggle, and philosophies I will never understand, the pages are their home. Each time my eyes find the orange fabric, I am reminded that my story, too, won’t soon be forgotten.
Above, the orange melts into a vibrant green–the color of the grass that grounds my every step. “You are here,” the blades whisper through my bare feet, dragging my untethered, drifting mind back to my body. When the green fabric grazes my skin, it feels as if everything but nature’s beauty fades into the background, leaving me in a field of blooming flowers, not a single distraction for miles.
The quilt ends a deep blue–the color of the sea that washes away my old mistakes, and baptizes me with new perspectives. With each pull of the tide, the troubles of the past are swept off to sea–the wonders of the future soon to follow in the crashing surf. When the blue edges cover my head, I feel the soft waves swirling above, and a constant stream of fresh air clearing my senses.
Though between the red and orange of my quilt, black holes that carry the biting cold of the outside have begun to form. They catch on the corners of my bed, and tug at the stitches–the quick “pop” of the seams calling out, “I’m still here. You can’t ignore us any longer!” just loud enough for me to hear.
Amongst the green and blue of the quilt, too, are stains the color of mud. Invincibly set deep into the fabric over time, my attempts to scrub them away always prove futile. Growing larger and larger each day, the beautiful colors of my utopia have slowly succumbed to the dark marks.
It is here that the intruding cold and dark stains have left me: well aware of the end my quilt nears, and the cold I must soon face without it. Perhaps I could do as my ancestors did: sew a new quilt of hopeful patterns and pass it down as my family grows–a meek effort to spare them from the suffering which I can only imagine.
It could be made of bright, silver stripes–the color of my grandmother’s rings, bracelets and necklaces–which always adorn her body. Even years after its creation, I can look at my silver-lined quilt and be reminded of how she taught me to always appreciate life’s small beauties.
Along with these shining stripes could be gold stars–the color of picture frames scattered around my room, holding individual pieces of myself: my best friend’s final goodbye before moving South, a family photo from the days of my youth, and the ticket to the museum that opened my eyes to inspiration. Like these gold-framed memories, the stars of my quilt will guide me home.
Surrounding the gold stars would be blush-pink hearts–the color of my first dog's collar who shows me unconditional love. Whether it’d be in the way she greets me after long days spent apart, or in the way her chocolate brown eyes hold mine, I can always feel her love. Each time I lie beneath the heart-covered-quilt, I will think of the power a bond can hold between beings.
Yet, I can’t help but think that someday, when I am long gone, on my quilt–left to those after me–mud-brown stains will begin to form, too, and growing black holes will rip the stitches until there is nothing left. Will someone welcome the cold with a warm fire, soup in hand, whispering “I see you now” in the way I am too scared to? Or will they continue to fight it with their sewing needles and colorful patterns, the cycle once more continuing?