coverlet

Frankie took the spare coverlet from the closet shelf and spread it on the floor.

He kept his back to me, his palm flat against the folded coverlet.

“Never,” I admitted as Frankie folded the coverlet into a makeshift mattress.

Little Mativii, swaddled in a white coverlet, squirmed in his bassinet and yawned.

They had set out on long tables the belongings the bride would take to her new home, a jumble of abundance against the austere centuries-old tombs where she had grown up: pots and plates; a furry red basket; a mattress made up as if for the wedding night, its frilly white coverlet topped with a stuffed panda.