Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
We worked in silence, the only sound the clack of the needle against the wooden table and the steady hum of the refrigerator in the corner. Slowly, the shape of the dress began to appear, the blue and gray panels framing the green square in the middle like a quiet frame.
I felt a strange, cold comfort as the last pin went into place. The fabric was heavy, heavier than any formal dress in the catalogs, but it smelled of the cedar chest where he had kept his clean clothes.
Nicole carefully pins the green fabric panel over the front of the bodice, her fingers smelling of old cedar and laundry soap.
The next morning, the smell of vinegar replaced the scent of cedar as Clara scrubbed the kitchen counter with a worn yellow rag. She did not look up when I came into the room, her movements fast and rhythmic as she worked the cloth into the wooden grain.
“The tea is still hot in the pot,” she said, her voice dropping as she pointed with her chin toward the stove.
