I kept some of her things.
Like her sewing machine.
10 days ago I pulled her sewing machine out from beneath my desk
and wiped off the dust that had gathered upon it.
It was the same sewing machine on which I had learned to sew,
on which she had taught me about bobbins and seams and thread and the importance
of ripping out stitches
and fixing mistakes
so when I finished I'd know I did my best and feel proud.
10 days ago it wasn't pride that I was seeking.
It was protection.
I needed to make face masks to protect us from this pandemic, this Covid-19, this Coronavirus.
As I carefully sewed the seams of each mask
I knew it was MY fingers feeling the slide of the fabric
but somehow it was Mom's hands that I saw,
her voice I heard in my head, reminding me
about bobbins and needle threading.
I took out her sewing scissors--made in Japan, gleaming, heavy silver and razor sharp--and snipped the threads and notched the curved seams. I could just make out her voice telling me to never cut paper with these scissors because they'd go dull.
The afternoon sun slid into twilight and the room around me darkened,
but my face was lit by the bright, hot light of the sewing machine,
the fabric somehow guided not entirely by me,
but also by Mom
behind me, around me,
guiding me,
protecting me
again.
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