Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
I walked back to the table and stared at the scarred corner of the wood, feeling the cold air seeping through the floorboards.
The house felt larger now, empty of the raspy breathing that had filled the rooms for so many months.
I did not let myself look at the hallway closet where his winter coat still hung.
Instead, I went into the sewing room and switched on the small desk lamp, the yellow bulb humming quietly as it warmed.
The blue cotton panels of the skirt were laid out across the long table, looking like a map of a river system.
I picked up the heavy iron shears from the wooden tray.
The metal felt cold and heavy in my hand, the blades still smelling faintly of the sewing machine oil Clara used to keep them from rusting.
There was only one piece of fabric left to cut.
It was the gray cotton pocket from my father’s oldest work shirt, the one he had worn when he taught me how to ride a bicycle in the alley behind the school.
