The Weekday One Hundred

She sat by the fire, working alone. Like she’d done for months.

But tonight, her final stitch, the last piece of his clothing in its rightful place.

She held up her loving creation and looked at it for the first time. Her hands trembled with excitement, anticipation.

She wasn’t sewing just a quilt; she was filling a void. A head… a torso… arms… legs… All made from his worn clothing.

She gently placed the cloth body on the other end of the velour couch.

She wasn’t remembering her late husband. She was recreating him.

Now, time for him to speak.