We imagine. We imagine her sitting. We imagine her sitting at the edge of a bed, carefully stitching needlepoint flowers. Two roses in narrow, pink thread, petals stitched over pencil lines sketched lightly over cream colored cotton background. Stems formed from green and brown thread, carefully interwoven. Three short shafts of gladioli, red white and yellow arranged as a fan behind the roses. She stitches humming, rocking her head from side to side humming quietly and forcing the needle through slowly so as not to puncture her finger. That had happened once. She struck the tip of her index finger and a sharp electric spasm raced through her hand and forearm. Removing the needle a small bulb of blood formed. She wiped it away, rubbing the wound lightly with her thumb. A dull, throbbing pain lingered for a week, during which time the roses stems and gladioli went unattended. Carefully now she stitches slowly humming softly forming flowers in thread.

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