By Mary Andersen

Michael finished washing the last dinner plate and carefully placed it in the dish drain. He stared out at the early morning fog as he turned off the tap water. He let out a long sigh reminiscent of someone with nowhere to go and no one to see.

He looked down at the sink, carefully wiped up the remaining water puddles, and hung the dish towel up to dry. He thought immediately of how Isabel would have been proud of him for leaving the kitchen area so neat and tidy.

Oh how he missed her. The cottage was so empty and quiet without her. Everywhere he looked, he could see or sense some memory of her. Her lightly sweet and flowery perfume used to barely waft through the air, so he always knew which rooms in the cottage she’d recently visited.

He missed her smile, her laugh, and her eyes. Mostly he missed her eyes, the way they used to dance and sparkle when a new idea was forming in her head.

He climbed the stairs up to the loft and made the bed. He felt another painful twinge as he pulled the colorful patchwork quilt up and turned it down neatly just below the pillows. Isabel had lovingly sewn the patchwork squares together by hand. It had taken her some time to do, but she’d always loved keeping busy with her hands.

She had then taken the quilt top and sandwiched it together with a backing and cotton batting in between, and then carefully hand quilted the top. Without looking, he knew her initials were stitched in hand embroidered letters in the lower left hand corner of the quilted coverlet.

The memories of her were more than he could bear. He sat down on the edge of the bed, and wept.