by Robert Wood

She sat cross-legged on the carpet
Removing the tissue pattern from its envelope

Before her the carefully chosen fabric
A long rectangle cut from a bolt

From a store at the bottom of the hill
A wonderland of texture and color.

She carefully arranged the tissue templates
One by one, oriented as instructed and remembered

Intently affixing paper to fabric
With straight pins held in her lips

Withdrawing them one at a time
Like tiny, shiny arrows from a quiver

As sunlight creeping across the floor
Was poised to make her move

All the while she was quietly humming
The hymns of her youth

And remembering her Mother
Who left too soon to make her a summer dress.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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