Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
She did not say anything about the locket, but her neck was bare, the small pale spot where the chain had rested looking raw in the light.
“The roofer is on the tiles now,” she said, setting a spool of heavy gray thread on the table.
“He said the patch will hold through the weekend.”
She looked down at the gray square I had cut, her eyes moving from the fabric to my face.
“You did that clean,” she said.
“I used the heavy shears,” I said, pointing to the iron tool resting on the edge of the mat.
“They do not slip.”
Clara nodded, her fingers already reaching for the pins in her collar.
“Let us get the bodice joined to the skirt,” she said.
“We have four hours before the sun goes behind the maples.”
We worked in silence, the only sound the rhythmic click of the sewing machine needle punching through the heavy layers of cotton.
I guided the blue and gray panels under the presser foot, my fingers holding the edges perfectly aligned.
The dress was not fancy.
