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.Read More A Sewing Machine From 1919