Helen Limon

Bespoke(n)

She measures my left arm from shoulder seam to cuff, pressing the tape into my skin. When I flex my elbow, my wrist bone evades the measure. A stray thread is caught on the metal tip of the tape. She removes it and writes the arm’s length down in her sketchbook. I notice her handwriting. Long fine lines, evenly spaced, more drawn than written, they suggest the hand of someone who cares about the form and structure of things.