Needlework

Rebecca, distressed, started ripping up the seams she had just completed, her mouth pursed and disapproving. "No, that'll never do," she fussed. "The edges aren't matching up and it just looks so sloppy. I'll just have to redo that whole stretch. Hand me the spool, would you, love?" Squinting, she rethreaded the needle. I assured her that her work was perfectly acceptable, but she only licked the end of the thread, pushed it through the tiny hole, and patiently lined up the ends, ready to begin again. The edges she would pull together lay in front of her, a bright red line separating them. Fine blond hairs sprouted from either end. She pressed the smooth edges together, and motioned to me to do the same from the other end. Taking the utmost care, Rebecca, my maternal aunt, pressed the edges so that they matched, returning half a freckle to its other portion, and started to make the minute sutures. It was taking too long, though. I just hoped that she would find her satisfaction before my wound turned septic.