Julia Alvarez

threading her needles, winding her threads;

the spools sat in their rods in the sewing box,

ends tucked in the notch on the flat tops,

a palette of greens, laurel, mint, olive, aquamarine,

shorts, skirts, blouses, dresses, and nightgowns—

better than storebought.

I remember the whirr and whine of her black Singer,

the gold traceries on the cast iron rod

by the wheel that lifted and lowered the needle.

Threading, eyepieces, winding the turquoise string

through hooks, around miniscule wheels, up and down,

her hands clever in labyrinths,

...the needle racing through gingham, poplin, seersucker, cambric,

the pedal pressed heavily down with the weight of one woman,

eye intent, hands feeding and receiving the fabric.

...the aunts stopped in in the middle of swallows,

heads cocked... as if they had heard

...their own baby crying.

It needed a pinch more of saffron? Paprika?

The tarragon dotted the rice in the cauldron.

And now, as if signaled, the spice jars popped open,

unladened their far east wonders:

cumin, turmeric, saffron, and endives.

The aunts each put in a shake of their favorites.

The steam unwrinkled their frowns from their faces.

The uncles ate seconds and rose in a chorus

...empty plates glowed like the eyes of the spellbound.

My friend Carol says aging evens out

the advantage of beautiful women

over plain ones. ...

Where are the girls who were beautiful?

The pies browned, the pastries puckered

in the cavernous oven I waited to open.