Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
At six o’clock, I walked over to the small house where Clara, my maternal aunt, lived behind her sewing shop.
The smell of steam press starch filled her small living room, and three bright safety pins were pinned in a neat row along her cotton collar. On the corner of her wooden desk, a ledger book lay open, surrounded by three unpaid utility bills.
She was clearing a stack of paper pattern books off her low coffee table, her movements quick and hurried as she looked up at me.
“Your father came by the shop during his lunch hour, Nicole,” Clara said, immediately reaching for a plate of cold ginger biscuits to offer me.
“Did he bring his work pants for a patch?” I asked, setting my heavy schoolbag on the floor.
“No,” she said, her voice dropping to a quiet murmur that made the room feel suddenly smaller. “He wanted me to show him how to thread a needle and run a basic hem.”
A cold tightening pulled at my chest as I pictured his heavy, calloused hands trying to mimic her quick, delicate stitches.
