Grandmother's Quilt

Anu's grandmother had a quilt that was older than Anu's mother. It was made of a hundred patches, and no two were the same.

Every night at bedtime Anu was allowed to choose one patch. And every patch had a story.

"This one," said Anu tonight, putting her finger on a square of faded yellow with tiny red flowers.

"Ah," said Dadi, settling her pillow. "That was your mother's first frock. She wore it on the day she learned to walk. She took three steps, sat down in a basket of tomatoes and laughed so much that she got the hiccups."

Anu laughed too. "And this one?" It was a patch of thick blue cotton.

"Only one a night," said Dadi. But she smiled. "That is from your grandfather's shirt. He wore it when he planted the guava tree. The one you climb."

Anu stroked the blue patch. It was soft from many washings.

"Dadi, where is my patch?"

Dadi turned the quilt over. Near one corner was a small square of green, with white elephants walking in a line.

"Your first blanket," she said. "I stitched it in on the night you were born. I was so happy that I pricked my finger twice."

Anu pulled the quilt up to her chin. Above her were the tomatoes and the hiccups, the guava tree, and a hundred other days. They were warm, all of them.

"Tomorrow," she said sleepily, "the purple one."

"Tomorrow," said Dadi, and turned off the light.