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The Afghan

Who’d given it to them? Aunt Lina? One of the aunts. Too bad she couldn’t remember who. They were all dead, so was Tom, and there was no one left to ask. Maria looked at it through her trifocals.

It had been a wedding gift. Hand-knitted with love and lots of peach yarn which didn’t go with anything they owned, or ever would. She sat in her worn housecoat and inspected it. It was raveled, maybe from being chewed by a pet or a toddler. The old blanket wore a coat of nubs.

Fifty-two years earlier, the scratchy new afghan had taken some getting used to. Although she loved it, she didn’t quite know what to do with it. She'd draped it across her husband Tom’s chosen napping spot, the sofa. He’d slept there Saturday afternoons, resting up after a week’s labors, a peach-colored, snoring mound.

At first she’d resented his naps because she needed Tom to get some yardwork done, to be involved in the day’s activities, spend some time with her. At some point, though, she’d decided to join him. Sometimes these naps were just naps, other times evolving into warm embraces and lovemaking. They’d spent many hours under it. She missed him now.

Maria thought of her newly married granddaughter. Maybe she’d like an afghan for the too-big sofa she’d crammed into their tiny apartment. Maria went to look for her knitting needles.

Story by:

Bill Kowalski

submitted at 6:05pm

13 May 2009