Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
She walked over to the table and adjusted the small lamp so the yellow circle of light fell directly on my hands.
“This shop is all we have left of your mother’s memory, Nicole, and I cannot let it go,” Clara said.
I pushed the silver needle through the next blue square, my thumb pressing against the metal thimble until my skin turned white.
“We will finish the hem,” I said.
Clara reached down and picked up the heavy iron shears from the table, her fingers tracing the cold metal handle.
“We have to,” she said.
The sound of water dripping into the plastic bucket in the hall was the only noise left in the house.
I held the heavy iron shears in the dim light, listening to the drip of water into a plastic bucket in the corner.
By ten o’clock the next morning, the kitchen air felt thick with the smell of wet plaster and cold grease.
Clara sat at the table with her hands flat on the oilcloth, her fingers resting near the far corner where the wood was deeply scarred.
