Irish lace and linen - she had the design right, the skirt's mountain-laurel pucker, but no hooks and eyes. So she sewed me in, a last-minute needle through my first communion - my marriage to Christ. The next time it was Grandma's pale wedding gown, a supple splurge of curdled satin. Her damned needle basted me in again, a lean noose loop. Through a succession of dresses her loose stitch has pulled pattern and fabric to the scissor's mouth. Only now I realize that's what she's always done; gathered me into the paradigm, a slack abstract. I bend my coffin cloth of flesh basted hem to skin. She's forgotten the hooks and eyes again, and sewed me in. |