80spoems/scraps

Sorting The Scrap Box

The kindergarten smock,
blue floral print with
contrasting collar and cuffs,
the beach robe which didn’t work,
Your nursery curtains,
ye11ow with white embroidery,
that later became a dress,
my tribute to Scarlett O’Hara.
Peter Max flowers when you were
a more sophisticated two-year old
and we moved to the new house.
The last long dress I sewed for you
that year at Christmas.
Black felt from your witch’s hat,
an assortment of linings –
white muslin to fuchsia acetate,
a couple of nighties,
yours pink flannel flowers,
and mine sheer green.
The red and white print
that went to Rosarito
the first time we left you
with someone else.
Realization sneaks up on me,
there are no more doll clothes
to be made, I save these scraps
just for history, as I have
mini skirts and maternity dresses.
I wish I had been an archivist
for costume and fabric, the one
who preserved those red crinkle nylon
shirts the boys wore in sixth grade,
the pink Bermuda shorts
with matching tops,
culottes and hot pants.
I wish I had saved it all,
had documented society’s shifts
in chemises and kick pleats.
I try to explain how things change
and even though you know it,
you never realize in time.
Had we known each other sooner
we could have shared more things,
back when I knitted and crocheted.
You were too young to witness
the candles and jelly,
to notice the passing
of macrame and patchwork,
knew me long after the clay.
When I say I want a place to sew
you make me a Big Mac pin cushion,
our tenth year in the new house,
time has crept up on me,
in the scrap box.

9/80