Scissors

Scissors —- by Kirsten Nash ——— Fiction It was morning, late morning. At least I think it was morning. The sun was shining in through slat-blinded windows, radiating down from midpoint in the sky. Bright, but not too warm, so late morning it would have been. Yes. When I was a little girl, I liked to spirit the scissors from the ledge of my grandmother’s sewing machine table. Withdrawing into myself and the wall beyond Granny’s pulsing feet in the space under that grinding machine, I would open and close those scissors, one little hand on each steely grip, marveling at the sound they made in transition. Open. Close. Open. Close. And I would smile to myself, a small smile at this weight of power …

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