Quilting Friendship Quotes

Why are old lovers able to become friends? Two reasons. They never truly loved each other, or they love each other still.

One can never had too many librarian friends.

Anytime we worked a quilt, it was the thing to do to set out an empty chair. It was for the missing woman. The friend who might call, just as you'd sat to quilt, and who might bring a loaf of bread, lend a hand, do a square.... There are times I miss the things I haven't done in my life. The things that Savannah is so good at doing, like taking up the empty chair.

Families and friendships are like quilts-each person intricately connected to the other

It tugs at me, filling me with the kind of seasick nostalgia that can hit you in the gut when you find an old concert ticket in your purse or an old coin machine ring you got down at the boardwalk on a day when you went searching for mermaids in the surf with your best friend. That punch of nostalgia hits me now and I start to sink down on the sky-coloured quilt, feeling the nubby fabric under my fingers, familiar as the topography of my hand.

A quilt circle's like a crazy quilt. You got all kinds in it. Some members are the big pieces of velvet or brocade, show-offish, while others are bitty scraps of used goods, hoping you don't notice them. But without each and every one, the quilt would fall apart. There's big and small, old and new, fancy and plain in a quilt circle. Some you like better than the others. We have our differences, and Monalisa is a trial, but it's a surprise how we all come together over the quilt frame, even Monalisa. We're as thick as a lettuce bed.

Well,” I harrumphed, “friendship is a two-way street.” “Sometimes. Not always. When a friend’s in trouble, sometimes friendship is a blind alley, a climb down a rope into a dark hole you’re trying to pull somebody out of, a rescue mission. Of course, it’s nice if the one you’re trying to save cooperates, but sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they don’t even know they’re in trouble. And you, of all people, know that.

One can never have too many librarian friends.

something completely unexpected, but transplanted by the One who makes impossible things possible?

Is your mom dead?” he asked, immediately regretting it. “Sorry.” “It’s okay. Yes, she died.” Somewhere a bird chirped, and he thought maybe it was a finch from the sound of it, and he said, “My mom died too,” as he looked at his feet, such weird little feet, and he wished they were wings. “That’s who I was talking about. She called me her Kit and I called her my Dakota because we belonged to each other.” But his feet were just feet, sadly, not the flying kind, and so he tossed his thoughts into the air instead, watched them glide around, blossom into breezes, little I-see-yous floating this way and that, landing like a soft quilt on all the world’s small forgotten things.