Snit

Margaret went into the foyer and took a seat. The funeral director was there within moments, all somber smiles in his dark grey suit. "How may I help you?" he said attentively (appropriately, and prepared for any reply). "Well, really, I'm here to ask if I can be of help to you," Margaret answered carefully, reaching down into her valise. "I turn to needles when I'm depressed or anxious ... or miserable for any other reason ... and I go and go and go until I feel better. It's not at all unusual to find that I just sort of "come back to myself" hours later with a completed project and no conscious memory of what I've made." She handed him the bundle wrapped in tissue - a carefully folded pile of white silky thread with a delicate edging of white and grey and palest blush beige. "This is breathtaking," the director whispered, transfixed and having an eye for detail, "but what is it, exactly?" "A shroud," Margaret answered very matter-of factly. "Apparently, this most recent snit produced a shroud." His eyes grew wide and his mouth fell open. "Do you ... uh," he started in a measured but hopeful voice, "... have these 'snits' often?" "I do," she replied honestly. "I hate summer. I'm likely to make more whether you want the shrouds or not." "Come back to my office if you would," the funeral director invited and gestured with his left hand, holding the bundle close to his chest with his right.