Why had she kept the old chenille bedspread when she bought so many other things new?
She hesitates. To throw it in the laundry might just be the end. Just let it happen, let it become torn and done with. But her hand brushes down the tufted rows, like the rows of grain; like the corduroy that she used to make overalls for her toddlers; like wet combed hair showing the teeth of the comb. The bedspread has been with her a long time, the care she had given made it last.
To remember or forget, that is the chenille question.