No more cereal box kangaroos on the wall.
They hopped away as soon as they got the chance.
Can’t blame them.
???
“Your little friends are hiding back here,” she says.
Her voice is hushed as though it’s a secret.
She's pasted my roos on the back of the door.
No more stolen duct tape from the shed.
“They keep me company when I'm sewing.”
She flips the quilt over to reveal an intricate pattern of stars and moons.
“That's gorgeous,” Amos exclaims.
Beaming up at him, she pulls him in for a hug.
They’re so adorable together.
Purple and blue, silver and black.
Each constellation, created by hand.
Every stitch, impossibly neat and precise.
I lean close to admire the delicate swirls and swishes she’s added for effect.
“Ma, this is incredible,” I smile. “You made this entire thing?”
“Took me years,” she sighs. “Mrs Ambrose started slipping fabric and thread into my handbag or pockets whenever I went over there. She said a project would do me good.”
I run a careful hand along the curve of the moon.
“Son, you always said the stars were a blanket, keeping you and me safe.”
If only that had been enough,I muse.
Her smile disguises her fear, just as it always has.
“Why do you keep this hidden, face down on the bed?” I ask.
But as soon as I’ve uttered the words, I know.
Dad likes to burn or damage things that matter to people, just to get a rise.
He likes to watch us cry.
“Learned the hard way not to show him when I care about something.”
It takes me a moment to realise that she isn't just talking about quilts.
I matter to her.
