He stared at me.
Then he climbed into the car.
His backpack was almost empty.
A folded shirt.
A bottle of water.
A paperback book.
And a small wooden box.
I drove him to the shelter.
Before getting out, he looked at me.
“What’s your name?”
“Martha.”
“Thank you, Martha.”
I smiled.
“You’re welcome.”
He reached for the door.
Then he stopped.
“Do you still live near the elm trees?”
I frowned.
“Yes.”
He looked at me strangely.
“Then I may see you again.”
I didn’t understand what he meant.
Three days later, there was a knock at my door.
It was Albert.
He wasn’t standing there alone.
He was holding an old quilt.
“I think this belongs to you.”
I stared at it.
The quilt was faded blue and cream.
I knew it immediately.
It had belonged to my mother.
My heart began beating faster.
“Where did you get that?”
“From Estelle.”
The name meant nothing to me.
“Who is Estelle?”
He looked at the quilt.
“That’s a longer story.”
He handed it to me.
I touched the fabric.
One corner had a tiny stitched flower my mother had sewn herself.
I hadn’t seen it in seventeen years.
“My mother made this.”
