Thirty Years

a decuain My closet is free of a strange parolee, coldly imprisoned for thirty long years, gone with the rest of my walk-in’s debris, I’d marked it “Goodwill” with cynical cheers. Rescuing the box, my mind shifted gears. And ready to face fair verdict instead, a quilt, yet unquilted, moved me to tears. My promise had been to finish this spread. It took just three weeks, while my fingers bled, “thirty years” rests proudly on my son's bed. written July 29, 2016 entered in Mystic Rose's contest as an "old thing" I learned to love. My mother-in-law started a quilt and when she died, I inherited it. I dug it out of cold storage and finished it this past March.