Afternoon sewing lesson

Zo Navarro

She was sitting where the sun splintered atop the newly cleaned floors, pristine, just as she was unmoving, unwilling to disturb its warmth seeping into her flesh as she worked. A part of her favorite shirt’s seams tore off. If she wore it, the rip would’ve teased a pinch of fat from all the days you’ve shared meals, outgrown clothes with different buttons since her youth.

Those were the days you two bit the hands that fed you. Now, both of you learned to be sorry, licking wounds. You have the privilege of mending clothes, not because you needed to, but because you’re round in places of whittled bone.

You watched her do her work. She was focused, yet not tender. Those were the same roughened knuckles which held your stiff palms. It resisted the demands of needlework, impatient to finish and blind to the ends. So, you take a step into her space in the lounge and berate her progress.

You say: “Rest yourself. We wear the same clothes, more or less. I’ll do this if you want me to.”

“I’ll watch you instead and stay here. I can learn.” Her knees almost bumped into yours.

You can feel her eyes follow your fingers, push the needle and thread through the cloth, undoing her previous labor. You once thought that she blanketed over life itself. Once, you were distinct, never sharing a breath. Sewing is muscle memory. You don’t remember when you two met. It just happened, one day unraveling into more.

You’re here, sewing a shirt that knows her better than you.

“Stop watching me.” Your hands stutter under the weight of her look, only a rip withstanding barrier. “It’s like I’m going to get caught doing something.”

Pretend that you’re not involved, as if the sewing technique passed down from your parents and grandparents isn’t currently fixing the weak seam that you’re barely holding together. You try to instruct her. Stitch it in, and then pull it out straight. Make it small, hold the tear together with pins.

Your parents, born in a traditional era, suggested sewing to charm a man. Sewing a man’s shirt showed a woman’s care at home. It said he had a loving wife. You pitied her subservience. You mourned a life of absence.

You wonder what it meant, this moment; helping someone (not a man) fix their shirt, to be with her as you do. You wondered what it meant; a fresh cup of coffee to your likeness every morning. Her presence lingered in the kitchen with you, always. You wonder, by the last stitch, if she felt the multiple knots at the last stitch brush against her sweat the next time she wore it. You wonder if there’ll be another tear, another hole to fix. Your sewing kit was once eluded in a drawer somewhere in the past. You now leave it atop a table in the room. Just in case.