By Wendy H. Gill

For years the dress I sewed
fit flawlessly, wrapped her
in plush protection and comfortable
cascades of satin.

How it ballooned and billowed
whenever she twirled
like a sparkler lit
in white-laced laughter.

I thought I saw
it tuck a bit tighter to her teenage curves.
But I had left
a healthy seam allowance,

room to grow. And yet
these days, I can't pretend.
The fabric is faded. It binds in spots
whenever she makes a bold gesture.

She says it chafes her skin.
I try to smooth the wrinkles
under mothering hands,
but it just puckers more.

Some threads have pulled
under the strain.
Not ripped but frayed
in a way I can't mend

without the world noticing
my mistake. I stand by as she
seizes pins and needles
and cotton thread.

Without a pattern
she is suddenly her own
seamstress. I gather the
outgrown garment

to my face, breathe in
silky scents of
talcum, sky and puberty
and fold those years

into a tissue-lined box.
There is nothing left
to do but take up measuring
tape and scissors

and silently snip and stitch and hem
until in season
I fashion a brand new dress,
this time for me to wear.

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