The Hope Chest

All the first part of her life she spent stitching at linens
for a man she had not met, whose face she did not know.
Handkerchiefs at first, then tablecloths; nightgowns,
when she had attained a woman's height, and knew her size;
aprons and draperies, folded with hesitant and measured movements
and laid in a box redolent
of cedar and a future she could always imagine well
but never comprehend.  Some had a drop or two
of blood folded invisibly into a seam, where she had pricked herself
with the needle.

She worked for hours sometimes, tearing out stitches
until she got them even and precise, rising from her cushion only
to put more oil in the lamp.  One evening at a dance
a man took her hand, the same hand she used to thread the needle
the next day to sew the batting and the backing of her very first quilt
to the top she had pieced together out of scraps.
Suddenly she knew that it was his.

Tonight, she lies with him on crisp clean sheets
she made years ago, unfolded from the box with tenderness
and reverence.  And tomorrow he will go to work
with a handkerchief over his heart that she made when she was a child,
and she will spend his absence gentling his home
with the labors of her lifetime.