Stories On The Tips Of Their Fingers

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Story Quilt

Julie Buffaloe-Yoder

The women sew stories

at sunset on the porch,

an old wicker basket

full of fabric by their feet.

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There’s a square of green

from the gingham dress

a girl wore when she first

kissed a boy by the river.

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Here’s a gray head rag,

stained with sweat

by a grandmother who

plowed the jagged back

of this black mountain.

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Those bits of blue denim

are a father’s overalls.

He lost a leg and died

working the railroad.

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That piece is from

the wedding dress

mother made with

a white lace tablecloth.

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This strip of yellow

was a blanket, dotted

with brown circles

of blood and covered

a chicken feather mattress

where babies were born.

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Four bright pink ribbons

belonged to the twins

who came out holding hands.

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A red checked apron

fed thirteen children

with two catfish

and three stale loaves.

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Each piece, a meaning,

a patchwork of souls

threaded together

by generations

of callused fingers

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on a front porch

between live oaks

and wisteria vines–

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the lingering smell

of warm cornbread

from the oven.

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Gold and purple sunset

stretched across the sky.

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