you throw away the quilt
your
mother
gifted you one Christmas.
hand made.
your name
stitched
across the front.
crazy striped in
primary colors,
and yet,
it's thread bare now,
the seams
frayed,
worn from a short
list of dogs
curled in its fabric,
tired and worn
from moving
from place to place,
the harsh sun
and time.
carefully you fold
it from corner to corner
and stuff it
away.
let someone else
decide
its future.
into a box it goes,
where you carry it to
the attic, for now
it stays.
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