When John and I were married we were given a quilt of sixteen blocks made by friends. The theme was scriptural songs John and I had written, embroidered in their original languages of Hebrew, Greek and Latin. It has seen some wear over the years and this week I decided to give it a face lift. I cut the blocks out of their frames, and discarded the ragged fabric. One block was actually beyond saving so the number fell to fifteen. I shaved off empty space and reframed them in blue shades of batik.

When I squared off the border I laid it out on the floor and looked at each one. I thought of the women who had made them, and our shared history. Gradually I realized that of the sixteen contributors, ten have drifted out of my life completely. I don't know their addresses, or their dreams, or the names of their grandchildren. Another four are on the hug-once-every-few-years periphery. That leaves two that I still rub elbows with thirty three years later. I felt sad.

What did this mean about my loyalty?

As providence would have it I am finishing two wedding quilts this summer. There were forty nine house blocks in the first one, and thirty Dresden Plates in the second. That is thrice and twice the number in my own quilt. Blocks have arrived from sisters, aunts, grandmas, friends, cousins, bridesmaids, groomsmen and brothers. I feel their collective affection when I pile it in my lap. Many sewers told me stories about the fabrics, and buttons, and colors they chose. They wanted me to know too.

I have no assurance that these couples will still be kept warm under these quilts in 2045, though the fact that these are quilted rather than tied like mine was makes longevity more likely. But I have an inkling that the circles of friends are not drifting away soon.

Even though the faces have migrated in my own constellation of marriage comrades, I am not alone. For that I give thanks.