Quilts On The Line
By: Vicki West

Quilts On The Line

Momma, sing to me Wildwood Flower and whisper to me one of the Psalms. Momma, sit by me once again and tell me all about heaven and let your voice speak deeper where it calms.
Momma, I have your washboard and your old mop bucket. Momma, I have your chipped china tea cup and the worn brown Bible in King James Word, that’s where I keep your sterling silver locket.
Momma, I miss your bright blue eyes and your light red hair. Momma, I miss seeing you in the front porch swing in the evening where the shadows cast a lovely light upon your face so fair. The memories are so loud like the old pipe organ and music from the violin strings, a flood of tears stream as the church bell rings.
Momma, I remember the quilts you made for us all. Momma, I can hear you telling us that they would keep us warm in winter and fall.
I can see the old farmhouse and the trees and the cellar behind. I can still hear the creek water moving over the stones and I can see so clearly those quilts hanging on the line.
Momma, could you sing me Wildwood Flower again? You always sounded so fine. Momma, would you read me a Psalm while I wrap myself up in one of those quilts off the line?