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Lillie McFerrin Writes
Ivy absentmindedly rubbed one hand over her rounded belly, while the other held the chosen quilt pattern; she contemplated the rigidly aligned material, blue ginghams leading to blue calico, blue dots, then blue solids.
Soon her cart was stacked with tightly wound bolts of analytically chosen colors, the loose ends reigned in with long, sharp pins.
She stood with rest of the herd at the register and waiting in line, saw many of the same flat lengths piled like cordwood in other shopping carts.
The woman behind her stepped forward in the queue as Ivy left, both of her hands free to push open the heavy glass door since her fabric still waited at attention, unpurchashed, the colors marching from dark to light.
Now scissors in hand, Ivy sat in her kitchen, her husband’s flannel shirts foothills of green and blue plaid on the table; she could no longer be held in that soft embrace, but his child soon would.