Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
I looked at the small silver oval resting on the scarred wood.
“That was my mother’s,” I said.
“It is just metal, Nicole,” Clara said, her chin tightening as she pushed the locket toward the center of the table.
“It does not keep the rain off the machines, and it does not finish your dress.”
I reached out and touched the cool silver, my thumb catching on the tiny hinge.
“I will not let them look at me and think we are defeated,” I said.
Clara stood up and smoothed her apron, her fingers catching on the safety needles pinned to her collar.
“Then we have to get this done before the sun goes down,” she said.
She picked up the locket and slid it into her apron pocket, the fabric bulging slightly against her hip.
“I will be back in an hour with the repairman and the green thread,” she said.
I stood by the kitchen window and watched her walk down the gravel path, her coat collar pulled up against the morning chill.
The kitchen was completely silent except for the slow drip of water into the plastic bucket in the hallway.
