Blue Cotton Work Shirts Stitched Together for a Spring Dance
We did not speak during the short drive back to the house, the hum of the tires on the asphalt the only sound between us.
The streetlights flickered yellow as we passed them, casting long, moving shadows across the patchwork fabric of my dress.
When we pulled into the driveway, the house was dark, its small windows reflecting the cold light of the moon.
Clara turned off the engine, and the sudden silence wrapped around us like a heavy blanket.
I carried the toolbox inside, placing it carefully on the kitchen table while Clara went to turn on the single lamp over the stove.
The kitchen clock chimed eleven times as Clara set the small velvet box on the table.
We sat together in the quiet house, the only light coming from the single yellow lamp above the stove.
I took the silver pocket watch from my purse and laid it on the scarred wood of the table, right near the corner where the old sewing machine had left its mark.
The watch face was clear, the tiny black hands pointing to ten past eleven, ticking with a dry, rhythmic click that filled the kitchen.
