Last night, I brought back mom's sewing machine. I had borrowed it until I had saved up enough to go and get mine at Blow's.
Back when I was in grade school and in my early teens. Mom and grandma made a lot of my dresses on that machine. I used to sit at the other side of the dining room table and watch in amazement at the welding to the fabric together. Sometimes, she'd rush me over and I'd stand for her as she'd adjust the fabric so it would fit me - not too well because well - a girl needs room to grow. She really didn't care if she poked me or not.
I was her human pin cushion - and she was fine with that.
Sometimes, I'd stay up at night and hear the engine all the way up on the second floor. It seemed I could smell the heat of her speedy seams all the way in my formulating dreams.
She'd talk to dad about which bills needed to be paid as she pinned sleeves to bodices
Dad would be smoking a pipe -in the next room watching Carson.
I'd listen to the clack clack of the needle - excited to be getting that new dress.
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