Stay On Pointe

There was a box. Inside there was black satin. It gleamed when I opened it. The dark shiny material flooded out of the box - something like this should have been in something that had a lock.

But it wasn’t.

I stretched the fabric all over me.

I laid in it

Hung it over my windows.

Spent days just draped in it.

I couldn’t figure out what to do with this fabric, or how to craft it.

What I did know is as far back as slavery the women of my bloodline were resilient. We were also seamstresses. Talented. They called my grandmothers mother the pattern maker. She could turn anything into fashion. Even scraps.

I laid this black unmanageable textile in my mothers lap. She grabbed a needle and thread. When she was done they were pointe shoes. The only ballet class I ever needed was six words never let them see you sweat.