Time passed, quickly this time and the quilt never faded. The threads kept tight and brightly colored. Its weight? Heavy too but that did not keep her from hiding underneath. Each time they fought, the quilt was her refuge. She remembered her embrace at winter time. Cold weather wind brushing off all her recognitions. And the rain water washing away her tears.
The cemetery was filled, unlike 15 years ago. The soil spoke to her when she passed by, the rocks crumbled under her feet. Every step responded to her stomping. Her hands were dry and unsteady, so instead of scooping some soil, she looked at it. She knew she was in the presence of mourning people, she knew from their clothes and emotions. Its just that she could not allow her self to feel like that. It was just foreign to her.
Before this, there came a time when she had to read out her speech to the attendees. She stood there with a paper and tissue in hand but what she said was not in there. How could a piece of paper capture all she felt towards her mother? They did not know, she did not know she could have stopped all that. But she was a child then.
Now she feels the softness of the quilt and think of her mother wrapped in it. Her father laying on the floor, blacked out and seemingly pleased with his actions. She could still see her bruised mother, her swollen face and her fading cries and her, hiding under the quilt.