Flying without a Quilt

With her pink bikini and suntan lotion, Mom stretched her legs in the warm summer air, inviting the sun’s tanning rays.  Melanie lay on her share of the quilt, knees bent, feet flopping gently as she turned the tattered pages of Little Women.  I sat cross-legged perusing Little Lulu and Richie Rich, but my eyes were drawn to the multi-colored patches of the quilt on which we three lay.  Over the years, Mom occasionally shared a memory the quilt inspired – “I remember this was one of Dan’s shirts,” or “I think Mom (my grandma) got this piece from Mrs. Leightner.”  I loved to imagine the many lives of the patches, to pick out my favorite pieces, to find the colors that suited my mood,  and to study the intricate pattern that brought the kaleidoscoping colors together.  

Our picnic quilt offered the best seat in the house for the annual televising of The Wizard of Oz, and lucky sisters sitting on that quilt in front of the rabbit-eared TV enjoyed cheese popcorn as only Mom could make it.  For outdoor play, it made a dandy tent with swing-set poles and clothespins, and when we played Little House on the Prairie, it provided a most realistic prop. (Though not quite as impressive as neighbor Julie’s yellow pioneer bonnet after which Melanie and I lusted openly!)  Like the friends who move in and out and through our lives, the old quilt played a regular but almost unnoticed role in our lives.  It kept us warm, it shared our sunshine and our play, and it gave us a space in which to be ourselves.  

Here in Spain, AJ and I are flying without our quilt.  The sights awe and amaze us, and the opportunities challenge us every day.  We share laughter and frustration, victories and fears in our tiny pis. We grow wiser, stronger, and more fluent every day . . . and it’s all good. 

But at the end of the day, we have only our borrowed sheets to warm our hearts.  More than any food or any American convenience, we miss our friends. We miss those daily conversations about nothing.  We miss Billy and Elliot guarding AJ’s goal, we miss Don’s questionable fashion statements,  John’s endless knowledgeable chatter, and everyone’s hugs.    We miss school – where the halls ring with voices we know in a language we understand without thinking.  I miss the hallway conversations, the late night telephone calls, and the chats on the driveway.  Every friendship has a history linked to our own, and I miss knowing I can pick up the phone and find the friend to suit my mood -- Polly and Karen to advise, Liz to laugh, Mary to scream, Mom and Mel to be my family.    E-mail keeps us updated, FACEBOOK distracts us with trivia, SKYPE reduces the distance. But nothing  provides warmth and comfort like the intricate, kaleidoscoping colors of our friendships.