Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
I watched her needle slide in and out, leaving a neat, ridged line of blue thread that looked like a tiny spine. The clock on the mantel ticked twice before she handed the needle to me.
“Now you try,” she said, pulling a wooden stool closer. “Slowly.”
I sat down and took the cold needle, my fingers awkward against the thin metal. Every stitch felt like an hour, my shoulder muscles tightening as I tried to keep the spacing even.
“Why did he keep so many of these?” I asked, looking at the stack of faded blue shirts on the small wicker table.
Clara did not answer right away. She adjusted a pin on her collar, her eyes fixed on the small stitches I was making.
“Because he knew they lasted,” she said finally. “And because he did not like throwing away anything that still had some use in it.”
We worked until the light outside the high window turned the color of bruised plums. My eyes ached from staring at the tiny blue threads, but the torn seam was solid again, doubled over with my own uneven stitches.
