The quilt belonged to an old woman who lived high on the mountain in a little cabin. The quilt lay neatly folded across the back of the rocking chair and looked just like an

ordinary old quilt except plainer. The old woman carefully lifted the quilt then lowered herself into the creaking rocker. She looked at the quilt in her lap and a small smile creased

her wrinkled cheeks. She said nothing at first, but appeared to be remembering. Remembering something from a time long past. She finally spoke and I had to lean close to hear

her aged, cracking voice. I didn’t understand her at first and thought she was just rambling as the elderly have a tendency to do, then I realized she was telling a story – it was the

story of the quilt.

“I used to be pretty back then. People said I looked like my mama and I thought she was beautiful! We both had curly black hair and light blue eyes. By the time I was fourteen I

was taller than she was though. I got that from my daddy’s side of the family. He was about six and a half feet and the shortest one out of all his brothers. My older brother Tabs

was tall too. Tabs was his nickname. We did everything together. My friends thought I was crazy to want to spend time with my brother instead of them and Tabs’ friends kidded

him a lot too. We worked together, played together, cried together, got in trouble together, dreamed together. We probably did the most of that – dreaming that is. I wanted to

be a nurse in a big hospital. I liked fixing sick things and never got queasy around blood like the other girls did. Dr. Sells, or Doc as we all called him, let me borrow his medical

books. I read them all. I looked forward to the day I would be a nurse wearing a neat white uniform and a little white cap. Tabs shared his dreams with me and I think I looked

forward to seeing his fulfilled as much as my own. He wanted to be a farmer. Not just any farmer though. He had already been keeping detailed records and was working on

some special hybrids. Most farmers weren’t much for stuff like that back then, but Tabs didn’t give up. A couple years passed and our futures looked bright. I had a job working

with Doc and Tabs had bought some land. Then the war came. I didn’t affect us much at first, but then Tabs enlisted. I thought my world would crumble. He was stationed in

France and wrote as often as he could. He spoke of the disease, the filth, sparing me little detail, we never had before, so he just told the whole truth. It was repulsive and yet I

felt a need to be there. Not just to be with Tabs, but to help. This feeling persisted and upon investigation I discovered there were positions open for medical volunteers. I

volunteered and requested to be positioned at the medical unit closed to my brother’s posting. I was miraculously granted this request temporarily and enjoyed seeing Tabs again.

Soon however I was moved to a different location. It was there the quilt began. I will spare you the details of life there. It was worse than what you can imagine. We were very

limited in the aid we could offer the men. One could not develop close friendships and remain sane but I felt a special attachment to each of these who so willingly sacrifice for

their country and for the freedom of others. One of the older men reminded me of my father, others of friends and relatives. Though they weren’t mine, I realized that they were

the friends, the husbands, brothers, fathers, the sons of someone. Some of these men died, their personal articles and dress uniforms returned to the States, but their tattered,

bloodstained battle uniforms were tossed in a heap to be discarded. It would be beyond cruelty to send these testaments of suffering to the loved ones. As I was carrying a bag of

such uniforms to the disposal one day I could not stand the thought of the last vestiges of these brave men to be gone. Maybe it was silly, but then and there I cut ragged squares

from each uniform. For the next three months of my service there I saved scraps – one square from each soldiers’ uniform who died. I returned home, sobered by what I had

seen. I started a quilt with my squares, determined not to forget or take for granted what others had been willing to do. Deep down I knew that quilt or no quilt, I would never

forget. I continued sewing. It wasn’t going to be a very pretty quilt, but it would be a very special one. It represented so many people, but it was not finished. It would require yet

one more sacrifice before completion. One day a box arrived and upon seeing it postmarked from France I was filled with dread. It was as I feared. Inside lay Tabs things – his

watch that Dad had given him, his Bible, a book on agriculture, a few medals, our picture, and his dress uniform. I cried as I looked through his things, shared them with the

family, and then put it away. Weeks later, I removed Tabs dress uniform, carefully cut from it a square then placed it back in the box. I finished the quilt with Tabs uniform – the

uniform of my relative, my brother.”

The old woman sat quietly as she stroked the quilt. She looked up and said, “so you see this quilt holds the lives, the relationships, the fears, dreams, and futures of people

everywhere. It may look like an ordinary quilt, but its not.” And I believed her, for through it I learned to appreciate the sacrifice of others.