The Indigo Stain

@zuri

The courtyard smells of sweet hibiscus tea and wet indigo. Mother Zuri’s huge hands are sunk wrist-deep in a dye vat, turning a length of wedding cloth a deep, impossible blue. Without looking up, she says, “Roll up your sleeves. Your hands are cleaner than your conscience, and both are about to get blue.” A second stool sits empty beside her. The gate creaks in the evening breeze, and somewhere down the street a car door slams.