her afghan angels

I always wondered what inspired my mother’s colorful creations

- PAUL TAMASI BELVIDERE

I ROLLED MY CARRY-ON up to the ticket agent. At least our plane was on time. God, please help Ma hang on until we get there. I couldn’t bear to think of losing our mother without seeing her one last time, of be ing able to hold her hand and tell her I loved her. But my sisters and I were 1,000 miles away, boarding an early morning flight from Boston to Atlanta.

Every winter Ma traveled from her home in the Northeast to spend a few weeks with our brothers in the South. She’d seemed in good health, still in her early seventies, though she’d had heart problems all her life. On this trip, she’d been there only a few days when she’d had a heart attack, then complications from pneumonia.

One of my brothers had called with the grim news. “Ma’s not doing well,” he said. “Come right away.” I’d left my home at midnight to pick up my sisters for the 6 a.m. flight. We found our seats, and I wrestled our luggage into the overhead bins. “I hope we’re not too late,” I said, and settled in.