She's tearing apart her clothes to sew garments
for her five year-old son,
a red satin cape for when he turns six
made from her old prom dress
lined with smooth wedding gown silk
perfect for her little superhero.
play pants for when he wears size seven
sewn this morning
from her well worn trench coat
a thrift store gem found the year she gave birth,
a vest for when he becomes size eight
warm wool hand washed
and carefully cut from her best sweaters
yellow front, blue pockets, with a green back
and on the inside, next to his heart, an embroidered 'Mom.’
school shirts for when he turns nine, ten, eleven,
when his memory of her will have faded like thin cotton,
shirts made of her softest skirts
of her own plaid blouses
of her new grey corduroy jacket
shirts with 'Mama loves you' written in the seams
shirts that will perhaps fit him later on
shirts he will become embarrassed to wear but ashamed not to.
how fast she works racing time
her now shaved head bent over the sewing machine
the whir and hum of it filling the room
it’s getting hard to sew
to hold her arms up is no longer possible.
but still here comes
a jedi costume
magic pillow cases
and a fuzzy hat
sewing interrupted with sweet hugs and kisses
and the reading of story books
before they lie down together
their still and silent bodies
lit in that brief orange light
just before sunset.
No matter how she pushes back time
pushes in anger
or in grace
pushes back their lost future,
the whir and hum in her sewing room
will cease
and shadows will lengthen
and the door to this room will close,
but right now
she is loving him
for as long as she can.