by Jo Goren
Thimbles once measured spirits, “Just a thimbleful.”
Five years old, she visited Mrs. Liggett next door, drank juice out of shot glasses, learned how to push a needle through cloth with a thimble.
Thimbles were given as tokens of love.
Twelve years old, Mrs. Liggett gave her a cloisonne thimble.
Prostitutes used thimbles to tap on doors, to announce their arrival.
Sixteen years old, Mrs. Liggett shamed her. “I saw you. Supposed to be babysitting, not doing the nasty.” Sewing lessons ended.
Thimbles are made of various materials, leather, metal, bone.
She tried a variety of thimbles and boys.
Jo Goren, writer/illustrator, was a nominee for a Pushcart Prize and Best Microfiction 2020. Her writing has appeared in Literary Mama and Blink-Ink.