The sewing machine is in my family room now, a visual reminder of a person I love and miss and learned so much from while I was a child.  The machine is old, but not yet an antique; black with Singer written across the front in gold.  The casing where the needle is brass colored, dulled with age and use.  I no longer keep a needle in the machine and I’ve removed the motor and light to keep it safe for little ones to touch and look less utilitarian.  It has one knob to turn to set stitch length.  I don’t remember how we wound the bobbin.  

Once though, long ago, when I was a girl Nonna (grandmother in Italian) taught me how to sew, guiding the fabric to the needle as I applied steady pressure on the foot pedal while making sure my fingers didn’t get caught.  I made so many clothes on that machine.

At some point I was given a new Singer machine which I kept in my own house.  It wasn’t very pretty but it had a few more features than Nonna’s machine.  But I still liked to sew on the other machine, mainly because it was in Nonna’s house.  The machine reminds me that Nonna taught me so much that I carry with me today. 


My daughter asked long ago if I will pass the machine on to her; I agreed though she never knew my great-grandmother she does know how I feel about her.  I trust she will treasure it as I have all these years. 

The Sewing Machine
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