Another Thursday. The pendulum of the grandfather clock is still swinging. The squares of the quilt are laid out. All are in the right place. All face the right direction. All sit apart at the right distance. Last Thursday afternoon was spent planning the pattern. The fan quietly sweeps the room from a safe distance. The fabric does not stir. The carpet is lined with orderly rows from the vacuum: back and forth, back and forth. The rest of the house is equally quiet and orderly. A smile lines her face. Her skin as pale as the eggshell walls, her clothing as unremarkable as the quiet painting by an unknown artist. The rings he offered her all those years ago have been placed in a jewelry box. Her smile grows. The colors of the fabric roar at her as she begins to stitch.

Callie S. Blackstone

writes both poetry and prose. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Plainsongs, Lily Poetry Review, Rust+Moth, Prime Number Magazine, West Trestle Review, and others.

Author’s website: www.calliesblackstone.com