Bookcase Quilt: Tangible Memories of My Late Husband

On By Lois RoelofsIn aging, Cancer, Health, Memoir, Sioux Falls, travel, writing

My late husband, Marv Roelofs, became famous over our 55+ years of marriage for making bookshelves for me. His first wall-to-wall lives on in our first home, a now run-down townhouse in IL that my son found recently on a realtor site. Marv’s last wall-to-wall, of course, lives on in his last home, my current home in Sioux Falls.

A few years after his death, a friend invited me for lunch. Slung over a footstool lay a machine-made quilt that was patterned after a bookcase. I immediately got an idea of what to do with Marv’s shirts. Since I bought most of his clothes, and he wanted so few (“I can only wear one shirt at a time”), his shirts were filled with memories of when, where, and why I’d bought them. I hadn’t been ready to move them on. And then, crucial to my new idea of a bookcase quilt made from his shirts, was that my daughter-in-law is a quilter!

So I asked. Absolutely, she would add it to her numerous quilt-making projects. Wonderful, I thought. “No hurry,” I said.

Recently, my new bookcase quilt traveled from her west coast sewing room to a wall in my mid-America foyer. She sent it along after their son visited, knowing he would get the memories delivered and installed for grandma!

So since my fall in early September, while I’ve been in an ultra vulnerable state, when I seriously could be using Marv’s physical presence, I’ve been super blessed to have a host of memories emerge every time I walk my hallway. I’ve said the quilt’s delivery time was providential. It came when I needed it most. It’s not unusual for me to burst into tears as I stop to ponder. There’s the floral shirt he wore his last Sunday to church. His love for the Field of Dreams. His passion for making healthcare accessible for all children.

I’m unable to state it strongly enough that I am grateful! The quilt has quickly become my conversation wall. I can talk to Marv as I pass by. I can tell him of my hand therapy visits. I can tell him I’m hanging in, quite well, actually, but I’m really getting tired of the quiet, empty house, and he can come back anytime. I’d even confess that I still haven’t learned how to cook. Maybe he’d leave some of his home-made dinners in the freezer for me. I wouldn’t be fussy.

But seriously, I can hug every memory as each slip of fabric reminds me of its importance and participation in Marv’s life. And, if I close my eyes and slowly take in a deep breath, I can try to catch a whiff of his favorite Carlos Santana cologne.

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