inside a whitewashed room with dingy
carpeted floors, the light switch is dismissed
and, instead, the window blinds are opened
to let the summer sun in. focus is on the
small desk in the corner, on the case that
resides upon it, black and brown and boxy
with peeling stickers of unicorns and rabbits.
the rusty clasps on its sides are unfastened
and the cover has been lifted away, revealing
a yellowed sewing machine beneath. sitting in
a broken rocking chair in front of the desk, she
delicately gathers the purple fabric draped across
its back and positions the cloth under the ­needle.
she flicks a switch, pumps a pedal, and the
machine roars to life. for a long while, nothing
matters to her except the edges of violet fabric
and the purple thread punching through. her hair
slowly falls from its bobby pins, her eyes ­intent
and scrutinizing, and her fingers inch across the cloth.
when it's done, the machine screeches to a halt and
she pulls out her oversized scissors to cut the last
connecting thread. turning around, she catches
my eye with a smile and holds up her finished product.
“here,” she says, “a shirt for you.”