The mat.

The morning she leaves

It will not fit.

The suitcase closes without it.

She presses both hands on the lid. Then opens it again.

The mat is longer than the case. She puts it by the door, where she will have to step over it to leave.

A few hours earlier

One last edge.

Her mother has been awake since before the house had light.

One loose reed catches on her thumb. She works it back into place.

From the doorway, her daughter says there is no room. Her mother keeps working. “You can carry it.”

Weeks later · a different island

The first thing that belongs.

The new room has a bed, a desk, and a light she cannot reach from either.

She unrolls the mat beside the window. Sits down. The floor is still warm.

When she calls home, she turns the camera towards the floor first.

The same morning · Another perspective

The maker.

She hears the suitcase close in the next room.

There is still one edge to finish. She could leave it. Nobody would notice unless they knew where to put a hand.

Her daughter used to sit on the other end while she worked. Then she grew too busy. There was school, a phone, somewhere to be.

This morning, the other end is empty.

“There is no room,” her daughter says.

She works the reed back through. “You can carry it.”

Weeks later, the phone rings. For a moment there is no face on the screen. Only a window, a strip of sunlight, the mat.

She moves the phone a little closer.