An old woman sits in her rocking chair stitching pieces of lambskin together. She makes a small drawstring bag, puts a handfull of nice looking beads into it, closes it, and puts it on the table beside her with 4 others just like it.
Taking the blanket off her legs, she puts her hands on the arms of the chair, creaks out of it laboriously, takes the 2 steps to the fireplace, shuffles it around a bit with the black iron poker, throws another chunk of cedar on, then sits back down.
Something about this night reminds her of a time, long ago, when she was a very young woman waiting for her husband to get home on a cold night. She pours herself another cup of steaming strong tea from the pot warming by the fire and takes a sip, then another. She remembers that night when he finally got home and her old loins feel something they haven't in quite some time.
She remembers the poetry she used to write, ardent and erotic, sitting in an old box upstairs in the closet, and decides to make a lambskin envelope just to keep them in.
Before she turns in for bed she has the envelope made.
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