Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
“We will use the gray one for the lining of the bodice,” Clara said, pointing to the sturdy collar band. “The wear is on the elbows, not the back. There is plenty of good cloth left.”
“I don’t think I can do this,” I said, my fingers going to my pinky ring, twisting the cold silver round and round.
“Your father spent twelve years fixing things that other people broke, Nicole,” Clara said, handing the heavy shears back to me, the black handles still warm from her palm. “You can handle one sleeve.”
I took the shears again, my thumb finding the notched groove in the lower loop. I lined the blades up with the thick collar seam of the gray shirt, where the denim was stiffest.
The heavy iron shears bite into the collar of Albert’s favorite gray work shirt with a sharp, decisive crunch.
The blade slipped on a tiny copper rivet near the pocket. A sharp tearing sound filled the quiet sewing room as the blue chambray gave way in a ragged line, far past the yellow chalk mark Clara had drawn.
