I knew I would ruin it 

 

I knew I would ruin it when you gave it to me. 

Precious stitches—

my great grandma made that

 

She must have used that big, hulky, 

dusty, dust-bunny-infected 

sewing machine 

 

Or one like it

Very much like the one I broke 

After you gave it to me. 

 

She touched every thread 

She cut out the darling 

blue squares 

 

She pieced together the different 

seafoamy pastel flower-patterened 

pieces; she made those even seams

 

We all need to find the way to hug 

our mom, when she’s 

not around 

 

And this, this 

is a part of that limited supply

Square feet 

 

Of a non-renewable 

resource—the way she loved you.

So you gave me the quilt, 

 

And I asked if you were sure. 

I felt like, 

I knew, I would ruin it. 

 

I’m bad with precious things—

I know they want me to be perfect.

But you said, “I want you to have it.” 

 

So I took it 

Now it’s mine

Now its butterfly-red borders are folded together in my closet

 

You know, I also stained the dress

she wore on her wedding day

when you let me try it on 

 

And I was sitting on your staircase

in that tight white dress 

and I never told you, I just took it right off

 

And I knew I would ruin it 

when you gave it to me. 

So, please, don’t be mad

 

when I do. 

I love it, too. 

I wish I had known her better.