The Innisfree Poetry Journal www.innisfreepoetry.org by Beth Paulson
Mother Sews My Dress for Eighth Grade Graduation
her dark hair tied back, leaning toward a small light. One hand on the shiny wheel, the other holds the pieces firm while the needle speeds up and down. Her slippered foot presses releases the pedal, the Singer hums, slows, back-tacks. For years we watched her wield silver Wiss scissors to cut cloth notch, trim and snip threads, learned the nap and name of fabrics broadcloth, corduroy, taffeta she straight-pinned to tissue patterns that floated above our dining table. When we were old enough she taught us measure and mark, keep stitches neat and even to pick out mistakes and resew, always steam seams open, leave enough room for hems to be let down. Mother, who was so sure her sewing would make us girls noticed also for our good grades and manners and that we would not fail to marry well. Today I want her calling me downstairs after school, bossing me to stand straight and still, taking my measure with steel-blue eyes, her smile as she slips over my head the basted bodice of pink dotted swiss her young hands that curve around my slender waist and lightly brush against my just-forming breasts. Copyright 2006-2012 by Cook Communication |