My daughter and I stared at the machine.
“I like that it’s black,” she said. “And those designs are so cool. There’s so much detail. Why doesn’t ours look like this? I might even use it if it looked like this. Wait…” She turned to me. “Do you think it still works?”
I peered at the machine sitting on the kitchen table, the sewing machine that I had inherited from my grandmother almost fifteen years ago. Long before Selma was born. I hadn’t laid eyes on it in all that time (even the few times I’d moved, I’d kept it packed away or covered). And before that, I’d never seen it at all. Continue reading
“Ours is a family of seers,” Gran would say, before she began one of her tales. “But like everyone we can choose whether to look or not to look.”
Then she would tell us, a varied collection of her grandchildren, of what she had seen when she chose to look. We’d listen raptly as she told us stories about all the odd items in her collection of treasures from her life. She had the usual things that people had: birth certificate, diplomas, love letters from Grandpa, pictures of her children and grandchildren, books, trophies, vacation souvenirs, and so on.
But she also had things that people typically did not have: a petrified dragon scale, pearlescent flecks from a unicorn horn, a shard from the sword of a giant, a seed from a long-extinct and legendary talking tree, and so on. Every odd treasure of hers had a story to it. And every story was an adventure from her own life. Continue reading