Sweet Seamstress

Ochre carpet, metal thimbles, lace doilies, black and white pictures.
A gauzy white dress hangs from the chandelier in Grandma’s living room.

My tiny fingers press into its plastic covering, crinkling the protective layer
between pure and stained.

Grandma lifts it up, her fingers begin to fiddle with the finery,
knobby from arthritis and years of threading needles back and forth.

Transforming Ugly Stepsister to Cinderella, she slowly alters
the dress, accepting little to no payment for the work and time it takes to

make a bride’s vision come true. Grandma pinches and pulls, leaving
room for when her breath catches as she sees her groom at the end of the
     aisle, waiting.

Now I am waiting, and wondering: how was I, a little girl, supposed to know
that my grandma wouldn’t be here for my special day?

Now someone else’s grandma will hem and snip, making everything fit just
     right.
but something will still be too loose or too tight, a button missing or a
     scratchy sleeve,

and when I walk down the aisle, and look in the crowd, her chair will be
     empty, waiting.