This is a short piece I wrote on December 10, 2001. I’ve never revisited editing it, or adding anything to it. This is it, raw.

Granny carefully began to stitch my prom dress from scraps of cloth she bought from the neighborhood material store, which stood on the corner of Mount Vernon’s busiest street. Her eyes twinkled as she tied off the pieces of thread being extra careful not to leave too much at the end of the knot. She slowly picked up a spool of red thread from the corner of the bed. She almost didn’t see it. Over the years her eyes have clouded with age and it becomes increasingly difficult for her to see.

The bedspread is a bright floral pattern with fully bloomed red roses that camouflaged the spool making it initially difficult for her to locate it. She pulled out a piece of thread the length of the span of her arms and broke it off with her teeth. Granny then rolled the frayed and cottony end between her fingers, licked it between her lips to moisten it so the fuzzy pieces would stick together forming a straight enough end to go through the eye of the needle, then pulled it straight with her fingers. She picked up the needle, which was amongst a dozen other sewing needles and pins stuck in a red-orange pumpkin shaped pin cushion with green stems and leaves. The cushion was as big as my fist and had lemonade juice stains from Granny drinking and sewing in the blazing heat in a room with no air conditioning. Beads of sweat ran down her face and they would glisten after just a few short hours of needlework. Somehow she never allowed sweat to fall on what she considered her masterpiece. She… Continue reading →