The mother
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.
