Stacy Mitchell

Sound of the Scissors

I’m not sure how young I was when I first accompanied my mother to the fabric store, but young enough to have to be led by the hand through the aisles of color and texture. Each aisle its own rainbow: rich, dark velvets; textured brocades; vibrant polyester prints - it was after all, the early 70’s. My tiny eyes drank in the colors and patterns, and my delicate, little hands grazed across the army of bolts and rolls. My mother allowed this, more concerned with my fussy baby sister, who sat in the front of the cart disinterested in the magic around her. I, however, was entranced.