that large loom loomed large in the spinster's stories. every day she'd string together yarn after yarn for the spindly women the next porch over, who were too fragile to escape her boasts of indigo cardigans crocheted for crotchety long-dead heads of state  -- truly an unspooling of material far beyond any of their threadbare memories. these women may once have been cut from the same cloth, but their patchy relationship would soon unravel like a performance of 'bolero' by wounded hemophiliacs.