Fabric of Life
ANN held up a white tea towel. It was old, worn and threadbare. “Do you remember this?” Ann asked her daughter.
Sarah shook her head at her mom. “Any reason why I should?”
“You were seven,” Ann said before correcting herself. “No, eight. It was your primary school Christmas play. You were shepherd number two.”
“Were the shepherds in charge of washing up?” Sarah teased.
“You wore this on your head,” Ann laughed.
Sarah took the old tea towel from her mom and ran her hands over it, feeling thin cotton between her fingers.
“You’ve kept it all these years?”
“I keep everything,” Ann smiled. “Your dad always used to say I should throw stuff away, but I hadn’t the heart to get rid of it. But your dad, well, he found it easy to discard things.”
“It’s just a tea towel, Mom,” Sarah said.
