A Stitch in Time…
Creative Threads
Sean is sitting on the love seat in the spot he has adopted over the last week. He is working on his laptop. For the first few days after he arrived, he just slept. Exhausted from a jet-setting life, he asked me if he could come home to rest. He is finally beginning to re-energize, and now he has fallen into a comfortable and balanced routine. An early riser, he works, exercises, eats, then we go for a walk. We cook together in the evening, and we are all in bed by 10 pm.
He looks up from his laptop.
Mom, do you think you could hem my pants?
Sure.
He tries on each each pair, and I pin the hems. The fabric is beautiful, light and soft. My son has good taste.
I go into the dining room to find my supplies. In the corner of the sunny room, my mother’s sewing machine occupies pride of place. It is a top-of-the-line Bernina from the 70s that badly needs a tune up. For the moment, it serves as a perch for a large potted plant. I open the top of the old-fashioned bench, and her familiar scent wafts from scraps of fabric, ribbon, and an astounding assortment of threads in every imaginable colour.
I haven’t done this in a long time, but Sean has a way of awakening the parts of me I have drifted away from. I seldom sew anymore, but the version of me he remembers is the mother who made things: curtains, bedspreads, cushions, Halloween costumes.
When you don’t do something for a while, you lose your confidence. I am nervous, afraid to damage the expensive garments he has entrusted me.
When my mother first taught me to sew, I half listened. I wanted to learn, but the chemistry between us got in the way.
Now, as I look at he work to be done, I ask her to guide me, guide my hands.
First, I bring up the ironing board.
“Put the pants inside out so you can align the inseams.”
I do
-“Iron over the edge of the cut so it doesn’t fray.”
I do.
“Iron along the line where you have turned up the hem, then pin the fabric.”
I do
“Now cut off the excess fabric, so your hem isn’t too wide. About two and a half inches should do.
I do.
At every step of the process, I hear her voice guiding my hands. Stitch by stitch, the work is done, meticulously. I keep the stitches loose, so they can move with the fabric.
I am not, nor will I ever be, a seamstress. But sewing anything reminds me that if I pay attention, I can pick up the thread of my own story and bring it to the page.