I am a lover of quilts. I have several - some rich with meaning and others rich with color and design. I have a quilt of 50 stars, a small one made for me when my first grandchild was born, and my most treasured - one made by my great aunt Lydie, with the help of my father when he was only six. It came to me with the bed she left to me when she passed, along with a feather bed. Let me say that the feather bed is a real handmade feather bed and not one like those sold at Linens & Things. That's both good and bad. Good because it's another part of the story of me - and bad because the cover isn't as soft or as easy to wrap a sheet around.

The colors of the quilt are almost gone with the exception of a faded flower here and there. It bears no real design, but rather is a collection of pieces in various sizes and shades, and in places, it is worn through. It remains folded atop an old trunk as I would never suffer it further damage by putting it on a bed. But at times in my life when I have needed strength, it is the one I pull around me. In that room (my room), I sit in an old rocker facing the window and I wrap myself in love. In that embrace, I am reminded of my heritage, my strength, and of love that served to bring me here. I am reminded that I don't always have to be strong - that there is freedom in my failures and beauty in my brokenness.

I am certain that without this story, this quilt would be tossed away should something happen to me. For to the un-educated eye, it's long since lost his usefulness. And even as I write this I wonder to the other things we throw away without a thought to the story - without a thought to the treasure.

My house isn't filled with antiques although I adore them. The bed I have, the feather bed, the rocker and the quilt are only a few of the things I've held onto, and each thing (every thing) bears a story.

The quilt has the tiniest of stitches (unlike any quilt you'll buy from a store today). I asked my granny once why that was so and she said that the tiny stitches were made in accommodation of men who rarely cut their toenails - it was so they wouldn't catch their toenails in the threads. Such a gentle simple gift - one that most now would ever consider.

I have the ladle that rested in the bucket on my granny's (Annie Jane) kitchen counter, and a walking stick carved by my grandfather (Raleigh). I have a picture of my grandparents on their wedding day (they look like two strangers who've been forced to sit together). There's a pocketbook (no, it's not a purse) that my was my granny's, and even now when I open it, I catch a whiff of juicy fruit gum. Inside is a hanky that was never pressed. I'm not even sure it was used to blow a nose. I only remember that my granny could create amazing animals from that little square of cloth. I have a flower vase that was bought for me with a quarter at a store with dirt floors. I have a skeleton key - and though I don't know what it originally fit - now it fits perfectly in my hand.

These riches are my inheritance - more than substance - stories written on my soul.

We choose what we keep - and for me, these pieces (worn through or otherwise) are reminders of the stories and the people who shared the love that became me. When I hold my beautiful quilt up to the light, it is that love which pours through the holes...lighting the place where I live.