Threads

White stitching on navy fabric presses ridges into my thumbs.

This dress is perfect for those pearlescent pumps bought for her two weeks ago. 

I register that I don't wait, returning to see if the price has dropped

like I did with Mother– 

instead I buy it and pay extra for gold wrapping paper. 

In a different time and tax bracket, I bought something similar.

A sweater with nautical stripes woven on ivory sleeves and an embroidered crest 

before the company cheapened to a bear and polo’d rider. 

The price I paid: my last check from teaching space camp and

continued lunch meat sandwiches instead of ground beef. 

Debuted on my first day back at Alabama A&M, my sophomore year 

I tugged the zipper upward and pulled the cream sleeve over my palm for warmth

while my ears were filled with Coltrane’s “My Favorite Things” and

the hum of the library. I caught glances at my milky sweater and me,

twinkles of lust in their looks.

Unlike stares towards the cobalt collection of threads I scavenged in

the final July of my childhood, in a trash stuffed plastic bag, next to bean cans.

On the TV, my sister and I watched blushing little girls and boys playing 

ring around the rosy in frills and khaki. We imitated rosiness, pleading.

Instead, our father drove us 20 minutes out of Mobile to the dump. 

The cobalt sleeves hung slouchier than spanish moss.

I bunched them around my elbows to write and swing at jaws of mockers,

but that cobalt sweater unraveled. 

I place the gold-wrapped gift under the tree and picture my eldest in

midnight and cream, pleating the sleeves,and walking into a room 

with distinction.