Michael Malone - Weebly

toward her.
The sheets on Judith Haig's bed were white and
mild as milk against her skin. She had let the weight of
her head sink into the pillow; it felt tender. Judith had
been washed by nurses with warm, easy hands and
dressed in the open nightgown. Now, unmedicated, she
lay, drowsy, in the dark room. After the clatter of the
day, silence in the night-lit corridor was slumbery and
peaceful. Beyond the curtain, her neighbor, Betty, slept
with soft, regular snores. Judith held a piece of cloth
against the white blanket and touched it with her fingers
as if it were an infant creature of some sort. It was the
scarf she had knitted over the past week from scraps of
yarn. Cleaned, brought to the hospital, placed in her
hands by Chin Lam Henry, the returned scarf was,
Judith knew, the wordless statement of Chin's
understanding and gratitude. Neither had needed to say
anything to translate its message.
The wool strip now looked nothing like the bright,
scattered, multicolored threads, the scarf of scraps that
Maynard Henry had snatched up from Judith's chair to