Grace sits at a clean window. She has time to pray as she knits
blue, green, purple together.
Carla bellows to the boys to keep it down, and sighs
cream, lavender, cream, lavender crochet.
Lilly has her papers before her, memorizes the next week's case studies
bright orange, light orange, bright orange, light orange.
Rhoda sits up in bed this week, finally able to contemplate her dying sister
royal blue straight through.
Kim adds white rows between each woman's strand, yarn to tie life to life.
And they give the blanket to Hazel, who feels gentle hands, soft threads.
Hazel is blind now, but she sees Grace at a window. Carla with her three sons. Lilly at a work desk. Rhoda in a sickbed. Kim in a rocking chair.
And they all dance with Hazel as she sits back finally, wrapped in precious, quiet actions which pass through time.
As the family divides her treasures one month later, the blanket does not match any room of any house. It comes to rest in the mismatched house on Pine Street, on a used couch and an armchair worn out by other owners. The blanket wraps anyone who wants it, anyone who will consent to be blind for a moment. And it warms neatly to tense shoulders; hands holding hot tea and books, in a cold room.
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