The blanket was heavier in my lap after Kyle called than it had been when I carried it into that baby shower.
That is the strange thing about hidden meaning.
Nothing changes in the object, yet suddenly your hands know the weight of everything inside it.
The kitchen was quiet except for the faint rattle of the old refrigerator and the little buzz of the light above the sink.
I had placed the blanket across my knees the way I used to lay wedding gowns across my worktable, smoothing the fabric before I touched a single stitch.
Cream wool ran under my palms, soft and patient.
The blue sailboats along the border looked almost childlike in the yellow light, each one tilting forward as if it were going somewhere.
Frank would have loved them.
He would have stood behind me, pretending not to be impressed, and then he would have bent close to inspect one tiny sailboat the way a mechanic checks an engine.
He trusted work he could see.
He trusted a straight seam, a tightened screw, a repaired hinge, a planted tomato stake, a dollar put aside on a Friday because someday Tuesday might need it.
Madison had trusted labels.
