Four chairs held up tautly against
the double-knit square. My grandmother,
and her fiery house smell of fabric,
yarn, and Pentecostalism, directed.
"Insert needle into the square's center,
pull up, out, clip, knot, and spread."
We worked quietly, two sisters unified,
hoping for a cookie or necklace while
Grandma and friend chattered, the
heavy ticking of the heirloom clock
interrupted and spat Time, Time, Time.
"All signs point to the end of times,"
Grandma said looking up at us two
who only wanted a small future for
boyfriends. Who fought that morning.
Each yarn tat begat a Scripture as she
spoke. Earthquakes, drought, L.A., rape.
Time, Time, Time, pull up, out, clip, knot,
and spread. "Are you ready?" she'd ask.
Ready to go home.
Writer's note: These were the memories and the associations mixed in with quilting at Grandma Faye's house who always brought up the end times in a scary way. I'm not sorry for Grandma's apocalyptic fervor -- it really laid a memorable foundation for some literature I've read. Plus, I would forever have a gentle, kinder regard for Revelations. Now, I think of it as the one book in the Bible that is hot to the touch, like an ember, waiting to blaze out in the form of horsemen going to battle, waiting to grab onto my throat and make me repent!