massaging your feet while reading
the program on your grandma’s
passing, i wonder if we are stitches
that have broken away from her
quilter’s prayer. maybe if there
were a map that could
collect the height of our
happiness and the depth
of our sorrow, it could also
vouch for the measure of our
spirits, the kindness
of our gestures,
verify that we are
unbroken, yet unfinished,
allowing us to discover
above her quilted
waters, like children
finally learning to swim


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