Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
I went back to the kitchen and sat on the bench, waiting for the clock to reach seven.
My black leather shoes were polished, sitting by the front door next to my small black purse.
I did not feel the small, sharp panic that usually came when I thought about the school gymnasium.
The fear of the whispers, the dread of Gary’s loud voice, the shame of the old floor wax on my collar, all of it had burned away during the hours of stitching.
“The car is warmed up,” Clara said, coming into the kitchen with her keys in her hand.
She had put on her good blue coat, the one she saved for funerals and church services.
I stood up, carefully gathering the heavy blue skirt in my hands so it would not drag on the kitchen floorboards.
“Do you have your ticket?” Clara asked.
“It is in my bag,” I said.
We walked out onto the porch, the evening air smelling of wet pine needles and coal smoke from the valley.
The streetlights were just turning on, their pale yellow light casting long shadows across the gravel driveway.
