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Seamstress

Gifted
     with needle and thread, you
     smocked my baby clothes,
little girl dresses you
     embroidered with cats and daisies,
eyelet-ruffled pinafores,
     frilly petticoats finished with a
     grosgrain ribbon trim –
your own exquisite handiwork.

Crisp paper patterns
     laid out on the dining room table,
     patterns pinned with straight pins –
     I can see it -
I come home from school, there you
     are with straight pins clamped between
     your teeth, pinking shears in hand,
     you shape my next new frock –
I see your shoulders’ gentle curve as you
     lean forward, guiding cloth
     under the Singer’s clacking needle,
     treadle whirring, whirring softly.

A Bo-Peep dress you fashion from
     crepe paper, cotton-candy pink,
     costume for my third-grade play,
the last lines of daylight slant
     through the blinds as you hurry,
     hurry to finish by suppertime.

By lamplight, late at night, your skillful
     fingers dance, slip-stitching
     the hem of my cheerleading skirt
     or is it my homecoming dress?

You squint, head bent over my
     satiny prom formal, you rub
     your eyes, blink, tack another
     lace appliqué on the
     bodice.
In the next room, I am
     dreaming my girlish dreams.


We were poor –  the best you could
     afford for me were homemade clothes
     you sewed with so much love – or
     the old you gave a second life –
     impossible to see the holes 
     you mended or ripped seams you
repaired with tiny, even stitches.

We were poor.  Homemade was
     the best you could afford for me -
and I never told you – never
     knew -  it was a luxury
     to have my own personal seamstress.   

pgallaher@copyright 2019  

 www.phyllisgobbell.com


    


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