Marking The Line

I remember standing
on the wobbly chair,
suddenly an itch
a loose hair
ticking my nose.

I remember her
pinched mouth
full of pins,
needling, stabbing
cutting words:

Stand still
you stupid girl!
What will people think
of me, if your
hem is crooked?

My granddaughter
stands on the table,
twirls, rises to her toes
and down, raises her arms
like a ballerina.

The pins fall
from my mouth
as I smile at her joy;
I mark the line
in her pauses.

The hem will be crooked
but I don't give a damn.
This flower-girl's Self
is more important
than a perfect dress.