Through the Fabric of Time

“Be careful with the needle.”

My fingers pricked and poked,

the light tap of her foot,

the repetition of sounds,

the whirring of the machine,

on the table,

hunched over the mahogany surface,

stains of coffee and tea and other beverages embedded in the grains.

My fingers began to ache,

my mother held the fabric beneath the needle of the machine,

I observed,

when it was my turn, the stitches began to form quickly before twisting off the fabric.

We readjusted the machine,

this repetition,

until the shadows of the trees had disappeared and the sky turned a dull blue,

then frogs croaked, the wind gushed, and the moon shone bright.

Years passed.

I hold my sun-bleached leather suitcase close,

nervous.

The hallway felt so cold,

not cold like when you sense the need to layer on a warmer fleece,

but cold like an armchair left alone, with no frames on the wall.

When the room still smells of age despite the landlord's efforts to erase all traces of it,

it’s the carpet that shouldn’t feel cold, yet still does.

The curtains are large and heavy, blocking out all light.

I pull back the thick fabric to reveal open air and green fields,

the beauty that remained unknown from inside the new house.

Many months later,

the place still felt cold,

leftover pieces from my old home scattered in the unused hallway.

I used to love unpacking;

yet, for a second, I hesitated to open these boxes;

they felt perfect for this house.

They made me feel as if this wasn't permanent, that moving here was temporary.

Suddenly, I felt the initial coldness from when I first stepped into the house.

I immediately thought of that heavy fabric, the dark green and mustard yellow curtains that made me feel none of my possessions belonged here.

I loved the area, but the house never felt like home.

Just to make less space for dust to gather, I open the box closest to me,

inside, a familiar shape,

the white shiny exterior.

Suddenly, I think back to those years ago when I learned to use the sewing machine,

I remembered how my hands started to hurt and how my mother’s body became brittle from the hours spent sewing, yet she said it was perfect and she wouldn’t want to live a boring life without knowing the sewing machine.

I never imagined I would feel compelled to use the machine in my life.

I pricked my fingers again, and the fabric glided as I had to readjust the machine.

I wish she were here to show me her secrets and shortcuts,

I wish I remembered how to cross-stitch better,

I wish I’d paid more attention to which fabrics worked well with which threads.

Somehow, I could still hear her telling me,

“Those curtains need to be resewn, make the room feel ‘alive.’”

Several weeks passed.

It’s obvious that not everything was lost on me.

I hung the new curtains up; they revealed a more classic style, the ones that draped back and gathered easily to the side.

It felt like I fell in love with the house for the first time, and I fell in love again with sewing.

Rays beamed into the room, the armchair seemed like a welcoming place to sit and read,

I could see lemons on the trees outside and houses in the distance.

Maybe I needed this space, to help me change and to fall in love with new things, with things I didn’t know I could love again.

It was now night, and it didn’t feel cold.

Love warms a space, and like before,

until the shadows of the trees had disappeared and the sky turned a dull blue,

then frogs croaked, the wind gushed, and the moon shone bright.

by Annie Hazrati