Cradle

The cradle sat unmoved from the place where it was first brought into the house, filled with blankets, and all the unused accouterments of infants, buried now under layers of spare pillows, afghans and Grandma’s quilt. The cradle had been purchased on a whim, a chance encounter that spoke of a dream yet unfulfilled, a siren song of desire. That was years ago. Now all that remained was something to trip over, to sweep under; the cradle all but invisible under the years accumulated upon it, bereft of use, of meaning, little more than an elaborate storage box, a hope chest ruined by the realities of dead dreams and ravaged hope.

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