The family tablecloth has been passed down through generations. It’s old and worn yet it’s treasured because of the stories it holds.  So when the youngest in the family accidentally rips it she is terribly upset. But then she remembers a story she knows, the story of the stitches, and as she patches it together again, she adds her own story to the cloth.

(I’m thinking of re-working this as a picture book).


The cloth flaps up, up. It catches light and air then floats happily down like pizza dough, over the table. Together we carefully pull the edges even. We smooth it over with the palms of our hands and we smile. ‘Ready!’ we say.

It doesn’t look like much, our family tablecloth. It’s scruffy and old and worn with love, Mum says. But it’s a treasure because it’s full of stories and it only comes out on special occasions.