Zitruseis

My grandmother made your jeans. She knew each seam of each piece, Inch by inch. After doing such a rote task for so long, It was hard not to. For each one was just one of the many, Made in an hour or a day, A week or a year. The process was so robotic. “Just make sure to take the proper measurements.” “Fill the quotas!” “The shipment needs to be on time!” Those were the words that droned through the speakers incessantly, Every half hour, Without missing a beat. The only thing that could drown it out was to daydream. Between the soft hum of the sewing machines and Salsa, My grandmother would sew and dream. For each piece she finished not only represented an item, But hope and sacrifice. Three girls waited for her at home. They needed her more than anything, And for them, she was strong. She tried to be. As the factories closed and times changed, She remained just as determined. Someone had to. Like the seams she sewed, It would take more than a few snips to undo her spirit.