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.
