It began yesterday when I heard Maria, in her sweet and innocent voice, asking how I felt about the pants I was wearing, if I felt I really needed them. I replied, somewhat huffily, that I was wearing them, so I guess I did need them. But I knew where this was going, she had spotted a place in her new quilt for my pants, and they were, she said, the right color, they were faded and even had some paint splatters on them.

But she sighed innocently, she could always drive off and find a thrift store somewhere, she was sure she could find some jeans there, perhaps not this color, which was precisely what she wanted for the side of her new quilt (above.)

I knew she was going to get those pants, even if she had to cut them right off of me. Innumerable shirts, nightshirts, sweaters,  pants, even underwear, have suffered this same fate, people perhaps have no idea how much of me is hanging in those wall hangings and quilts.

It always starts with that same fiendish, what-me look. And it always ends the same way. You do not want to get between Maria and a quilt.

Last night, when I got ready for bed, I turned them over to her – she had been starting at them unnervingly all day- and she pretended to be shocked. I knew the quilt was already all done in her head, and my pants were in it.

This afternoon, she went into her studio and I saw one pants leg on the floor, already part of her new quilt, and the rest of my pants had been washed and were spread over the ironing board, getting chopped up. I winced and Maria told me not to be silly, this was just another chapter for the pants.

The quilt is beautiful. It’s not a bad fate for old means.

Year dear, I said, sipping out the door. You are probably right.