REALITY?: Where Are The Ladies?

The needle hums, the material flies, my fingers move swift as the wind. The past is long past yet whispers of silks and satins, ballgowns encrusted with jewels. Grandmothers honored for thimble and thread in cathedral cities of violin dancing. A pinprick springs forth a ruby drop of blood, a knowing smile, the work is baptized, complete. But these are just drapes and not drapery, and the music is not an old waltz.