singsonged

Mother Chang singsonged:
“Lightly, touch yuh needle
into cloth vuhly lightly.”
I tugged and twisted,
my eleven-year-old face
as sour as calamansi.

I bunched brown yarn
into obstinate curls
peeking out of Santa’s cap:
pompom-tipped, velvety
pouch zippering closed
to become a doll’s face.

Mother Chang warned:
“Lightly, hold yuh cloth
cuhfully or it gets duhty!”
I clutched and pulled
at that Grade Four project,
vexed with “lightly…lightly!”

A doll’s face, at last:
shiny black button eyes,
lipstick-smudged cheeks,
felt swatch red lips.
I was struck by the
smiling wonder.

Mother Chang’s eyes sparkled
when she saw my doll bag.
Its gold handle glinted
where I propped it
on a pile of books,
beside my mud-caked bike.