Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
A faded green work shirt was draped over the back of the metal folding chair beside him, its cuffs frayed and the pocket missing its button.
“Why do you keep that old one down here, Dad?” I asked, pointing to the faded cotton.
He opened his eyes slowly, a faint smile softening his tired face as he looked at the fabric. “That is the shirt I wore my first day in this school, Nicole, back when the boiler still ran on coal.”
“It has a deep tear under the left pocket,” I said, stepping closer to touch the rough, clean cotton.
“A man has to know how to fix what is torn, Nicole, whether it is a sleeve or something else,” he said, his Midwestern drawl even slower than usual.
“You should let Clara patch it for you,” I said. “Her shop has the right green thread.”
He shook his head, his hand sliding over the faded green sleeve. “No, this one stays right here where it belongs.”
He reached for his broom, but he leaned heavily on the wooden handle before he took his first step toward the basement doorway.
