You made me. You cut and stitched me together, in a cold, gray, Northern sweatshop, staying late after work, nobody minded, because you worked so hard all day. Every one of them was your cousin's, bridesmaid's, sister-in law, or some such. You'd all come from the fields of your coppery Mediterranean island to this miserable British city. We knew we were different though, our journey wasn't over.

The secrets you whispered to me as you cut me and stitched me. The older boy you had first seen when you were a barefoot child, him on a fancy bicycle. He'd left the village and gone to work in a hotel in New York. It sounded so grand.

You'd grown to be a fine seamstress, you made me and countless other gracious dresses in that dark dump, and you saved me and you saved up almost every penny you earned, and took me to America with you.

In New York you didn't wear me so much. We lived with a friend of your mother's. At night with me hanging in the closet you'd still tell me the secrets of the day, how she wanted you to meet her nephews. She'd shown you their picture, "this other boy" you said "I think I might recognize him", well you knew you did, you still had memories of the fancy, handsome, bicycle boy, but the only one you told was me.

On the day he was to visit you wore me. We ran home from work, your heart was pounding, I remember the sound that your little, cream shoes made as they pattered over the grimy sidewalk.

"I don't want to get married" he said, you nodded and smiled. Three years on you returned to your island, as his bride.