67 of 365

In the evenings, she would sit in the worn wingback chair by the window, an unfinished quilt on her lap, needle and thread in her hand. With her husband at sea for weeks on end, she would stitch to pass the time. The needle pierced the fabric as his boat did the waves. Over and under, around and safely through. He would return when the quilt was complete. He always had before and she refused to think otherwise.