“Who wants to go around wearing an old curtain?” Me. I do. This lace probably once hung in some frail old lady’s living room, and when she died her daughter or granddaughter washed it, folded it, and donated it to charity. Long before that, the old woman was a young woman, and she was in love with someone; she must have been to buy such romantic lace. She thought of the person she loved while she sewed the curtains and peeked hopefully through them, waiting for her beloved to call on her. She admired the lace flowers against Henson’s gloomy sky. I’m dressed in her happiness and her heartbreak.
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