Not allowed long hair ourselves, we’d brush                                    
our grandmother’s. She’d sit, straight-backed, her chair                   
before three eager girls whose chatting hushed                                 
as pins were pulled to free dark, waist-length hair. 
Each one had a measured third, to braid,
to pincurl, to let fall loose, to decorate
with plastic clips or bows. We weren’t afraid
to improvise on our captive fashion plate.
We loved her better from the back, her face
unsmiling, whiskered, old. And why did she
put up with us? We’d no idea the place
she’d journeyed through – the bleak insanity.  
We brushed her hair, each stroking separate strands.
Perhaps she felt some comfort in our hands.

Finishing the Quilt                                                                            

                                                for Carrie and Desmond        

Desmond, that night her boat turned over in the Irish Sea                
and you saw Carrie’s head go down beneath the waves,                  
you realized you couldn’t stand to lose her, then or ever.
So later, wrapped in blankets before the fire,
you kissed her for the first time, then made love.
Despite your mother’s blushes, you shared this story at your wedding.

The first time I met your family was at that wedding.
We’d taken the ferry to Belfast , driven north along the sea
to Ballycastle, near where the ceremony would be. So much love
was everywhere, arriving with Carrie’s family and friends, in waves
from America , and with your mother, sister, and brothers – “the lads” – the fire
in their eyes only stronger when they’d had a pint or two. If I ever

had doubts about love, I had none on that day, if I ever
wanted certainty I had it. I started a quilt for your wedding –
in the winter it covers my lap as I sew before the fire.
Your third anniversary just passed, but you’ve yet to see
the finished piece. Partly it’s my laziness, but waves
of reluctance overtake me too – I don’t want to let it go. I love

its colors: shades of purple, green, traces of gold. I love
that I think of you both, and your lives, with every
stitch I take. The quilting begins in the center and like the waves
that follow a stone in a pond spreads outward, wedding
the purple to the green, the center to the edges. Kelp from the sea,
grapes on their vines, hidden berries, misty ferns, abstract fire –

these are the fabrics my needle passes through. May the fire
that burns in you both stay with you – not just your love
but your passion, too, that led you each to Corrymeela, to see
if it was possible to teach peace to Northern Ireland ’s young. If ever
there was a daunting job, this was it, in this country where the wedding
of a Catholic to a Protestant, as yours was, can cause waves

of outrage, or worse. I remember watching Omagh on the news, waves
of anguished survivors recounting the terrorist blast, and the fire-
bomb in Ballymoney that killed the sleeping boys, despite the wedding
of all the parties attempted by the peace accords. It will take love,
it will take time, it will take faith, trust, and forgiveness if ever
that peace is to happen that your mother no longer believes in but your children may see.

May this quilt remind you of your wedding, and that night before the fire.
May it help you see that change comes slowly, often in waves.
May it keep you ever warm, and wrap you in your love.