Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
“He asked about the difference between a straight stitch and a slip stitch,” she added, her fingers tracing the edge of a paper pattern.
“He cannot even hold a pen without his hand shaking, Aunt Clara,” I said, my voice rising.
“He was very particular about it,” Clara said, setting the plate of biscuits down without taking one herself. “He sat right at the table and made me draw the stitch lines on a scrap piece of denim.”
“Why would he need to learn how to sew now?” I asked.
She did not answer, instead turning back to her sewing table to organize a box of wooden thread spools.
The kitchen was quiet when we sat down at nine o’clock, the yellow light from the ceiling bulb casting long shadows across the oilcloth table.
My father sat opposite me, his fingers curled around a mug of warm water to steady his hands.
“Where is the silver chain for your pocket watch, Dad?” I asked directly, keeping my eyes on his face.
He paused, his thumb tracing the rim of his mug, before he slid the chainless silver watch out of his vest pocket.
