Sherbet colors. My favorite. I covet and hoard old sheets that look like summer did on my old block. Across the street lived a family with three beautiful hippie sisters. Tana, Kiki, and Mimi. The youngest was at least five or six years older than I was. They all looked like what you wanted to look like: long, blond, halter-topped, big-toothed, always laughing, always coming or going, never there for as long as you would've liked; you waited to see them, and hoped they might give you the time of day. Sometimes they did, and that kept it going. We were afraid of them, because they put on scary plays on the front porch and had lots of inside jokes and couldn't have cared less about us. They built a house for their cat, which lived outside, and when the family moved they just left him behind, and he became ours. That was Spot, who lived for years and years afterward.
That's what I think of, when I look at these fabrics. Sleeping-porch fabrics. Humidity fabrics. Nightgown fabrics. A party across the street. Braids and daisies. Bare feet. Oak trees. Sagging screens. Playing tennis alone for hours against a wall. How sunburn bloomed at night. Smashed lightning bugs streaked across the driveway. Someone yelling something to somebody. Longing. How we wished it would rain, but only in big, booming downpours that would flood the viaduct. We'd go sit on the fence and watch cars drive through. Some would go too fast, spraying dirty water like enormous gray wings.