I snatch some fabric from the scrap heap, holding it up to the improv quilt square taking shape—‘80s playlist crooning in the background, or old Lionel, the window cracked so I can hear crickets or frogs or mourning doves, depending on the season. As I quilt, I sing to my cat, who surely thinks this tidbit was wr…
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Tricia Gates Brown to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.