The old trunk moans 'neath the weight of time, Her life held within its ancient walls. Musty air permeates the room.

Years, embroidered on lace edged cloth, entwined in a mountain of thread.

Tarnished hoops hold an unfinished pattern. A needle, embedded in its mist, stands poised for the next stitch.

Again, I sit at the hem of her skirt where violets are stitched in muslin cloth. A strand of thread, moistened from her lips, is drawn through the needle's eye.

She smiles at my bungled stitches and straightens my tangled thread.

As twilight darkens the window pane, she sets aside another bouquet -- one that still blooms on my pillow.

Reminiscence of her, echo from this time-scarred trunk. Remnants of home, tucked away in a far corner, reflecting her life and mine.

I cherish these remnants, these bits of her, embroidered on my soul.

The years unravel.

Silver threads streak my temple. Her face becomes my own. Tangled threads separate and pass through the needle's eye.

Lazy-daisies and French-knots are bound in new cloth.