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slip Take the concentration intricate work requires—a needle, embroidery. The in and out through the eye, thread and fabric pulled. Or the cautious hands of my mother, webbing yarn into a sweater, the genius click of her needles. It’s enough to make me jealous of that kind of patience. When I took the box of giveaway stuff to the garage I found swatches of crepe and a lace tablecloth discolored by wine, as if a dinner party had decided to throw their bad manners out in the open, leave their spoils. The luxury of this fabric, its airy matter. I’d like to tailor it, get it down in a form myself. All you need is a pattern, she’d tell me. No, I thought, pawing my scissors, one snag is all it takes, one disruption— 75 ...

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