My grandmother made quilts in a small house outside Springfield.
Nothing matched, and that was the point. Old work shirts, baby dresses, feed sack cloth, pieces of curtains from houses our family does not own anymore. She could look at a square of fabric and tell you who wore it, what year it was, and whether they were happy then.
After she died, we found a box labeled “too small to use” full of pieces she still could not throw away.
Missouri is in that box for me — scraps of people, places, and work stitched into something that somehow holds.