t. Rob Voigt
Mom brought home seven feet of cloth from the market, and I sighed a deep regret. Why hadn’t I gone myself? I tell her, “Ma, seven feet of cloth isn’t enough to make my pants, we need at least eight!” She replies, “Seven feet was good enough before, have you really grown again?” I don’t respond, and she feels herself shrink a bit shorter.
On that piece of cloth, the same old size, mom paints a version of me, then gently with scissors she clips and trims, and gently I cry out, ah!
She cuts me down, cuts me open, then with needles stiches me up, patches me… and makes me grow up.