@ellowrites @ellopoetry @apoem_4u
If not for the spitting
Mum spat on every wedding dress she ever made
including her own daughter-in-laws.
Whenever mum worked with white,
she would prick herself and bleed.
’Not again!’ she’d say and start spitting, grab a hanky,
wipe it on her tongue and begin to rub the blood out.
Occasionally I’d hear ”Hey chook come and spit on this for me!'
The brides never knew
each one loved mum’s work and would praise her, bring gifts, take her out to lunch, give her extra money.
Many of the brides had mum and i at the house on the day
helping them to get ready.
Their mothers would offer us plates of fruit and cakes with cups of thick coffee.
I’d be scanning the brides dress looking for any abnormalities in the fabric something that looked like a water mark or vague shadow.
I never found one.
Mum was meticulous with her spit cleaning.
I was often used as a live dummy, standing in the passage, wearing some woman's wedding dress,
mum crawling around the floor looking for any missed blood or spit stain.
One afternoon she was sewing while the bride was watching and chatting
She's cut herself .
Started spitting on the dress, forgetting about the woman
who was horrified
”What are you doing to my dress!’
”Oh sorry, but saliva is the best and easiest way to remove blood from clothing.”
She held up the dress
”You wanna have a go?”
The woman, dumbfounded spat on her dress.
They became great friends.
The spitting seemed to have some kind of bonding effect.
Sophie, as we now called her
was like a member of the family.
We would go to dinner dances together and the Melbourne cup each year.
They both said that there friendship may never have happened.
If not for the spitting.