I’m standing on the table
in Grandmother’s dining room,
so they can pin the hem.
“Doris, turn,” say Georgie and Ruby,
again and again and again.
Sometimes a pin pricks me.
My mother’s younger sisters are making
dresses and coats for me
out of their old ones.
When I go to Sunday School,
I feel so dressed up in my Mary Janes
and a maroon coat cut from one of theirs,
with its black velvet collar.
But my very favorite is the swishy
striped brown taffeta dress
sewn from Aunt Georgie’s skirt.
Even when they take my picture,
I hold up a corner of the hem to
make my cheek happy.
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