Singer

Singer My grandmother’s sewing machine, waits for me…in the closet. I am not afraid, I am concerned. It has been a long time since I have put needle to thread. My hands shake sometimes, they used to… did not. My eyes, can not see the patterns as well, but it will not matter. I will simply make quilts of every design, and color, every shade, that will not fade. I grow less fearful and more alert. I continue to consider the possibilities of all that can happen. Here and now, there and then. Whenever… possible! Grandma used what was at hand. She made things from old clothes, good rags, worn blue jeans. The quality was not so much about measured stitches, or perfect hems, but keeping her family warm in the cold. Keeping wool, rough but worth every scratch, close. Keeping cotton, lasting and hearty, full of color, shape and design. Keeping lost arts alive. I pull the box from the darkness and sit it on the table. Latches, holding back only the ultimate and powerful promise of limitless, hope. Dreams of the heart, embroidered with sentimental prayers and personal initials, “Made by” “With Love” “For you” “Always” Amen.