A rectangle of fabric shows a child-like drawing of a fish; when I say child-like, I mean the fish is smiling, and its eyes reflect happiness. When I say child-like, I mean my child.

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Another piece of fabric has a simple design repeat, two slender ovals that lean toward each other, flower petals perhaps, or a Chinese dumpling. And when I say dumpling, I mean my child. When he was born, his eyelids crinkled into delicate folds.

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I am sewing a quilt and when I say I am sewing, it is the way I do everything: it is the needle pricks and the splashes of blood. It is the lost scissors and the misplaced pins. It is the measurements, checking over and over. And again. The measurements that were right today will be wrong tomorrow.

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Red-and-white droplets wriggle across a stream of orange fabric. They look like tadpoles or like spermatozoa. The father of my child will be at the wedding. He and I and our son will be who we used to be and who we are now.

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I will yearn to remove my shoes, to cool my feet in an orange river.

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I do not believe in astrology, but I will point out that the primary color in the wedding quilt is blue: fishing boat blue, cobalt blue, and ebony blue, black enough for drowning. My son and I pay no attention to horoscopes. We are both water signs, he swims well, but I am scared if I cannot see the bottom.

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The quilt I am sewing is not perfect but it has beauty. And when I say it has beauty, I mean it was made with love. And by love, I mean this: I made it for my son and his wife.

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When I said the quilt was not perfect, I meant to say that it is I who is not perfect. The new husband and wife are not perfect; but they have love and they have beauty. By that, I mean they have each other. They have a marriage.