In a pile of clothes

to be mended, I find

the slip you broke.

Strap torn away,

small tear left behind

Easy enough to stitch,

I told you, when you paused

at the damage you had done.

Pink thread, fine needle,

a rudimentary sewing ability

passed on from my father’s

days in the Army.  It will look  

like a scar that won’t

fade enough. But, I could

wear it again. It still fits.