Hospice quilts and roads home

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Made for my mom when she entered hospice, this quilt graces our sofa.

Our beloved has passed, a beautiful moment of affection, grace, and letting go. I was privileged to be among those seeing off this man to a new plane, my heart aching for the tears of his widow yet grateful for his presence in all the lives so blessed to have known him.

This title was from a week ago when I was going to write about having visited my youngest daughter and her crew, but there was no time as I then caught a flight east to be with another branch of my family. The quilt pictured above was from when my mom died. A different one was made for my brother-in-law last summer, and it was in use all week to keep him warm.

Roads home take us from east to west, back east and beyond. They flow over mountain ranges and vast swathes of our nation. They amble alongside rushing rivers muddy brown from violent storms or soar high over quiet snow-laden acreage. They are pleasant and pensive, poignant and painful. Sometimes they are cushioned by comforters that later act as gentle reminders of how sorrow turns to healing.

I'm going home today, another road traveled back across the country. With me I'll carry items previously belonging to a man so deeply admired, and I'll don those shirts and sweaters knowing he'd be glad such apparel is not only still in use, but acting as a salve on weary hearts. His wife, my sister-in-law, insisted as soon as I arrived to take whatever I wished, wanting to share in his graciousness. Perhaps no mortal more full of grace and kindness has lived, or maybe I'm biased. A bright light has gone out; may we honor him by carrying on his sweet humanity every day.

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