Stitch in Time

Stitch in Time Taught to be handy with needle and thread, once upon a time I spun straw into gold— chrysanthemums on the pillowcase, bunnies on my sister's bib, slipstitch and blindstitch, the pinpricks of my girl's heart embroidered on the snowy field of cloth. Stretched across the wooden hoop, I could be a handkerchief with pink scalloped edges to be taken home in my teacher's purse. To be taken in hand and dabbed at nose or eye, to be soaked in rosewater, to reel in the waltz of floss and fingers, my firstborn skill. I came by it rightly, my grandmother gunning the treadle at the garment factory, churning out shirts like paper from presses to meet her daily quota. I received the gift of every young bride, a packet of #2 needles, one bright penny taped inside to dull the bad luck of sharpness given, blood drawn on white linen. But for the occasional hem and iron-on patch, I've put it all aside. Wall hangings and crewelwork in the attic, the wooly alpaca yarn I always meant for something wonderful—all mislaid in the fast shuttle of days. My hands now too restless to point so precisely, too questioning for the enormous simplicity of buttons. They have other tales to unravel, their nimble ways cutting down to the moment, the indelible fabric of remembrance and ever after. Across the blank page, I sew a tableau more mysterious than velvet, the weft of this girl's hopes to be kept in a pocket near the heart, with callouses thick and proud, my quickness spinning on in low light, threading over, under, around, and through. —Linda Parsons Marion 49 ...