Somewhere in my parents’ bungalow, my mother has carefully stored away an unfinished quilt. My mum started to make it when I was a child; it contains hundreds of individual hexagonal pieces, laid out in a basic flower pattern, cut from the leftovers of every item of clothing she ever made for me. It contains; cotton she used to make my Brownie uniform, corduroy she used to make matching skirts for me and her, brushed cotton from my nighties and so on. The quilt has never been finished or resolved, and lies somewhere in the loft, incomplete. It is a specific selection of her dressmaking projects, framed in one archival body; each piece alluding to or reminding me of deep, intimate stories abo

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© 2016 by Frances Bossom

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