If I were a seamstress, I would work in the theater.
My hair would be long, wavy, and tucked into a bun with those sticks, or maybe an ornate pin. I would wear tunic tops and gaucho pants, but not linen. It’s too heavy and it wrinkles.
I’d smell like roses and tobacco.
If I were a seamstress, I would moisturize and wear no makeup. Small earrings and a jade bracelet my father gave me when I graduated from high school. The last gift I’d received before he left for good.
I would drink tea from delicate cups and mismatched saucers. My tea would always go missing among the piles of fabric and things to do until it went cold or steeped too long. My cups would have rings, as would my fingers.
Silver with big stones, maybe an octopus on one from the only time I’d been to the Pacific ocean.
As a seamstress, I would have a silk pin cushion. Oversized and a bit tattered, I would tie it on every day upon arriving. Tie, no elastic.
I would listen to old school jazz and kick my shoes off right after lunch because walking in socks would be fun and stray pins wouldn’t scare me.
Yes, I would talk to the mannequins practically every day.
I’d be a sketcher, as all good designers are. Thick paper and charcoal pencil. By the end of the day, I would have black on the inside of my middle finger and love the look of it. My work, my life creating things.
The best part of making costumes would be touching. Relishing the feel of the layers around me. Fabrics, beads, texture, and make believe, would be the parts of me.
If I were a seamstress, I would take the train, eat cold noodles, and collect colorful socks. I’d be picky about my friends, but never pass up treats brought in by the actors I dressed.
I would have apple cheeks and work hard for my happiness. People would stand in wonderment at my ability to find anything in my colorful space. They’d also notice I’m a good listener.
Listening would be my best quality if I were lucky enough to work in the musty basement of a theater.
That’s all from the laundry room. Tucked In.