Memories and a Machine

Yesterday I was working on Cora's Can't Quite Let Go quilt.  As I was happily stitching along, I sat back and really looked at my sewing machine.  I say "my" machine loosely.  My mom actually bought it with Christmas money years ago, when she was expecting me.  A thousand memories flashed through my mind: hearing the hum of this machine as I fell asleep as a young child, waking up from naptime to find my mom stitching a little outfit for me, making doll clothes with her for my favorite doll, sewing my own clothes in high school, making curtains for our babies' nursery, and now sewing the last of the quilts for my own children.  I thought of hundreds of projects in between, both successful and failed.  But mostly I thought of the memories.  Watching my mom sew, feeling her hand on mine as she leaned over my shoulder and taught me to sew.  The feel of the breeze in my hair as I skipped down a beach in Spain, my doll on my shoulders wearing the little coat we'd sewn together.  The thrill of wearing things I'd made myself.  The anticipation of sewing for babies I hadn't yet met.  This little machine has marked the seasons of my life.  It's been around the world with me.  Today, as I sewed, Cora sat in my lap, her little hands perched on the edge of the table.  She wanted to see how I sewed.  Someday she'll have her own sweet memories of watching me sew for her, of learning to stitch little clothes for her doll, of someday maybe sewing for her own children.  This machine won't survive that long, but I'm thankful today for the threads--pardon the pun--that bind the generations of women in my family, for a mother who took the time to sew for me and with me, and for my own sweet children who give me the opportunity to carry on the tradition.

It almost makes you tear up mid-seam...