Fiction: The Yellow Taffeta Dress

Mama’s story.

Joan squinted as she threaded the sewing machine needle. She hated working with taffeta. The material was stiff and she thought it was overrated. But her granddaughter wanted a white taffeta dress for her first communion and Joan obliged. At least the new sewing machine was electric. Joan’s memory went back to the time when her mama did not even own a sewing machine. Mama used to ask Madam Lim’s permission to use her old hand-cranked Singer sewing machine which always sat in Madam Lim’s living room.

“It’s going to be a nice and pretty mama,” seven-year-old Joan squealed excitedly as her mother worked on the yellow taffeta material. Yes, it was going to be pretty. Joan and her three sisters were getting new dresses for a special occasion. Madam Lim was kind enough to let mama have some taffeta fabric she had left over from ball gowns she made for the District Officer’s daughters. Mama was a good seamstress and the lovely taffeta dresses soon took shape and emerged with pretty gatherings and tiny bows and ribbons sewn on.

Mama and the three girls rented a room from Madam Lim. Papa had arranged for them to stay with Mrs. Lim before he left to work in the north. He was gone for two years and due to return by train in a week’s time. Mama helped pay the rent by helping Madam Lim with her sewing and cleaning around the house. Madam Lim was a spinster and welcomed the family into her home. Mama received a letter every month or two with some money in it. It was not much but it helped put food on the table. Besides helping Madam Lim, mama cooked in a restaurant for three hours a day while the girls were at school.

On the morning of papa’s arrival, Joan and her sisters, all in pretty yellow and pink, squeezed into a pedal trishaw to ride to the train station. The train was due in an hour but mama wanted to get there early. They sat patiently on a wooden bench on the platform listening for the sound of the steam locomotive from the north. Joan noticed four other families like theirs, mothers with children waiting excitedly for the train to arrive. At seven years old, Joan was the oldest. Her youngest sister had only faint memories of papa. Joan remembered when papa was with them. They lived in their own home. Joan never knew why papa had to leave or why they could not go with him. Mama never talked about it.

The train whistle alerted them to its arrival and soon the rumble of metal wheels on metal rails formed a slowing rhythm as it approached the station. Mama and the girls stood up as did everyone else seated on the platform. The train arrived with screeching wheels and hissing steam. Doors were pushed open and passengers began to alight. Joan watched in anticipation, hoping she would still be able to recognize papa. She saw other men alight and rush toward their families. Soon everyone had alighted and people began boarding the train for the return journey. Joan looked at Mama. Mama had the palm of her right hand over her mouth and Joan noticed the tremble in mama’s hand. They stood there quietly and alone for a minute as northbound travelers completed their boarding. The shrill whistle sounded as the train prepared to leave for the return journey. Soon it was rumbling away from them, the rumbling slowly fading as the train disappeared in the distance.

Then mama said, “Come on girls, let’s go home.” Those were the only words she spoke as they made their way out of the station to look for a trishaw to take them home.

Joan’s thoughts returned to the electric sewing machine and her granddaughter’s white communion dress. She remembered, that from that day at the train station, mama never spoke of papa again. She also remembered why she never liked working with taffeta.

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