In June, June joined a quilting group at a community centre.
She almost did not go.
She considered herself someone who made one quilt.
Not a quilter.
The women disagreed.
Her second quilt used no childhood fabric.
No memory.
No sacrifice.
Just colors she liked.
That felt strangely luxurious.
—
Three months before the wedding, Ethan came to June’s house carrying a cardboard box.
He placed it on the kitchen table.
“What’s that?”
“Stuff.”
“That is an unhelpful noun.”
He smiled.
“Open it.”
Inside were old items from storage.
Photographs.
A junior hockey medal.
A worn paperback.
A tiny wooden car Malcolm had made for him.
June looked up.
“Where did you find these?”
“Basement.”
“Your basement?”
“Yes.”
“Claire allowed this?”
Ethan laughed.
“She helped.”
June picked up the wooden car.
One wheel was missing.
“You loved this.”
“I know.”
He leaned against the counter.
“I’ve been thinking about the quilt.”
June kept looking through the box.
“Dangerous.”
“I want to ask something.”
