Moths ate holes in the fabric of a family quilt. Birds gather loosened threads, scattering string in their nests.
Now the ticking no longer holds the batting in place.
A stranger throws the quilt over a back fence to air. It waves in shreds. Seams have come undone, the fabric shivers in the chill.
Record keeping is not worth the card stock it’s written on.
Pay no mind, truth is enough.
Mistakes are slow and sticky. We are plastered with them.
Finding a weak space, mistakes crawl through and hang on.
Echoes are moving to a better place, only you know where.