She laces the needle through the thin fabric, making a gift out of nothing much more than imagination and heart and a simple plan.
Beside her, her youngest rests, lethargic or maybe peaceful—more still than she ever is in the mornings. The girl drifts between dreaming and staring—staring at the TV that is not on, at the window which is closed but open.
The girl stirs at the smell of pancakes. There are blueberries in the air, and maybe cinnamon, but also love.