Welcome to Blue Cotton Memory: the faith, love and politics of raising boys to men. The title Blue Cotton Memory comes from a poem I wrote: Quilt Me A Blue Cotton Memory. The content of this site contains discussion of information that gave me confidence as a mother, taught me to appreciate and value the differences of my sons, to more effectively nuture their development, and help them find their purpose in life. Here you’ll find homespun stories that provide laughter, insight into raising sons, solution options for challenges faced on both mothers and sons in and outside that relationship, and maybe just an echo of your own experience. Sometimes those echoes not only comfort but encourage. I am Blue Cotton Mom. . .
quilt me a blue cotton memory
sunshine and shadow
brittle figure in blue cotton wave you
your age-spotted hands and catch the latch
as companionship swings storm doors shut
and alone in your home where Madame Alexander
dolls breathed in cradle kin’s imagination
seasons circle the pin oak, aging,
cockscomb and currants
blue cotton woman rock you before the hearth’s
red hot coals flashing the past, as aching finger
bones dance patterns on silk-bordered crazy quilt
and green eyes focus on China dolls waltzing
past midnight, sighing drops of love,
spinning bolts of dreams, heaving, fighting
the birth of loneliness.
storm door, speckled silver and rust, groans, sighs
on its hinges and filigree shield shakes
as the door swings back, swings forth
to an old woman’s childhood until the white sheet covers.
the storm door slaps shut.
blue cotton woman soars.
basket of scraps
nobody is left to catch the latch.
Childhood’s home stands empty
but for bolts and drops of blue cotton spirit.
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