Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
We had turned off the overhead lights to keep the electric meter from spinning so fast, leaving only the small yellow lamp on the machine arm.
The blue chambray fabric of my father’s work shirts lay across my lap, heavy and stiff.
My fingers were sore from pushing the thick needle through the triple-folded seams of the skirt hem.
“Hold the edge tight, Nicole,” Clara said, her voice coming from the shadow near the door.
She was standing by the window, watching the dark clouds move across the moon.
“My eyes are tired,” I said, stopping the needle mid-stitch.
“We have to finish the blue panels tonight,” she said.
“If the power goes out tomorrow, we won’t have the light.”
I pulled the thread through, the blue cotton resisting the needle before giving way with a tiny pop.
The fabric smelled of the cedar chest and the lemon oil my father used on the wooden desks.
“Gary told everyone at school that we are bankrupt,” I said, not looking up from the stitch.
Clara did not answer right away.
