FABRIC

I remember hiding in the center of the circular garment racks while my mother looked for work blouses, my hands passing over the soft satin sleeves and covered buttons.

 

She sewed our Barbie’s clothes and dresses from Simplicity and Butterick patterns with poplin fabrics. Boxes of brightly colored patterned prints were tucked away on the laundry porch, where her sewing machine was.

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I decided on crushed black velvet fabric for a prom dress and searched the vertical rows of bolts at the fabric store for the right texture and weight - laying the tissue paper pattern over the fabric on the kitchen table - the sound of the shears cutting through the fabric - remnants floating to the floor. The struggle to get her instruction right - the fabric being hard to handle, the needle not pacing through it to make a straight line. The feeling of slipping it on the first time, even with the crooked hem - a sense of pride.

 

My wedding dress, the white Baronet satin skirt, shifted around my legs as I walked.

Pulling a green velvet dress over my legs to cover my ankle tattoos, the fabric like a theater curtain.

Ambitions to sew my daughters’ Hamentachen costumes for Purim - the right color tan to mimic baked cookie crust - the soft yet still rough felt material.

The soft blue cotton of a boyfriend’s t-shirt on my cheek.

The threadbare comfort of a worn plaid shirt.

Putting my best friend’s sweatshirt to my face after he died, the smell of him in the fibers. 

The harsh wool sweater in the snow.

Scratchy tule.