A man glares at a wilted poppy and drinks his filtered water.
On the bed, a hand-quilted cover.
That quilt, built of childhood’s fabric. Sewn by the love of his life — his mother — before (in his middle age) she jilted him.
She did that by dying, which splintered things.
The seams of that quilt. The old thread fractured.
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I looked up “hand quilting”. It seems tedious with room for a lot of mistakes. But it’s said to be a meditative activity. A running stitch seems like it could be a running joke like being in stitches. A hidden knot between layers is an intrigue with a thimbled finger needed for a push. Three layers of intrigue and mystery in a “quilt sandwich”. Top, batting, and backing sounds like a baseball player looking for backing to buy a team. The quilt in the story seems like a teddy bear. Somewhere unseemly seams seem waiting for death to be unstitched from the seam of life.
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Fun! Yes there are a lot more textural words that would be fun to play around with, as you have
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