Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
I laid the gray fabric flat against the cutting mat, smoothing out the wrinkles with the palm of my hand.
My hand was steady.
The trembling that had stayed with me since the hospital room was gone, replaced by a strange, quiet weight in my chest.
I aligned the metal ruler with the chalk line I had drawn the night before.
“One inch for the seam,” I whispered to the empty room.
I positioned the heavy iron shears at the edge of the gray fabric, the wide blades catching the yellow light from the lamp.
The metal made a clean, dry sound as it sliced through the woven cotton, the gray fibers parting without a single stray thread.
I did not hesitate.
I moved the shears along the chalk line, my arm moving in a single, fluid motion that felt as natural as breathing.
The final piece of my father’s work fell away from the bolt, a perfect square of gray chambray.
Clara returned at noon, her shoes squeaking on the linoleum as she carried a small paper bag from the fabric store.
