The Front Window
I chose one tablecloth at the thrift store for its fine texture and delicate
rose pattern. Sturdier coverings hung beside it, ready to absorb spills and
heavy conversation, but that lace surely had lain under soft words and
romance while bread was passed or wine poured.
Sunlight-slivers through the blinds were no longer enough to warm me. I slid
my treasure from a plastic grocery bag, the yardage draped over my legs
as I sat at the sewing machine. One short edge folded over--tiny stitches
held fast to make pocket for the tension rod.
I pressed it high into the window frame, opened the window et voila! A
rush of lilac and freshly cut onion grass from the neighbor's yard. The
panel billowed in a skirt-flirt; a monarch landed in the garden, just beyond