Pinking Shears

I awakened this morning to a thought and a smile,

“I want pinking shears.”

Those scissors that cut an edge with jagged points.

I always felt the need. Just in case.

Pinking shears ease the anxiety of fraying,

Of threads pulling away from the body.

I weigh the extravagance against the security.

A new pair is always a good pair.

The cuts are sharp and clean.

The swoosh of the blades, steady and sure.

The close friction of metal on metal,

Power in the hand, creating.

Possibility suspended between two blades.

Decision made, the cut, and no turning back.

 

Their purchase always seemed unreasonable.

Before.

At House of Fabrics, nineteen dollars.

A luxury denied, I'd sneak covetous glances at them

As I browsed the bolts of fabric and sewing notions.

And walked away. There are other strategies one can employ

To ward off the unraveling. 

 

My mother had a pair.

Vintage, cold, stainless steel and heavy.

No orange plastichandles then.

She knew when to use them and

What fabrics would unravel if she didn’t.

I’d watch the results as they cut through

Calico and muslin. And lavender dotted swiss.

Ingenious invention to a child.

Simple precaution in the face of disaster.

 

I turn the argument in my mind even as

I turn into the House of Fabrics parking lot.

In twenty years they will be dull.

Can pinking shears be sharpened?

No matter. They are only nineteen dollars.

It is a small price to pay.

To guard against coming apart at the seams.