On Passion
Mama used to sit and sew long into the night.
My room was near the corner in the hall
where her Singer sat.
I’d hear busy feet tap a pedal.
I’d hear a whizzzzzz and steady throb of needle,
I’d hear nimble fingers turning edge and thread.
And every now and then,
I’d hear Mama murmur something like, “Yes, Fern”
as she talked herself through a patch.
Mama was a perfectionist with stitch.
Thread in.
Thread out.
The lines had to track a perfect trail.
No strings lost track.
No garment shrugged.
The sleekest silks draped straight.
Mama loved to dress.
She’d fuss and bother over every fit.
Sometimes she'd take a trip to town
to eye a window's special.
Come Sunday morning
she'd have the look cut and sewn
and showcased
upon her tiny frame.
Unlike Mama,
I never took to handiwork,
or to the layers of fabrics filling
closets in our home.
But I understood.
My slip was to be lost in some similar nook.
The same I felt with book and light
while under cover
or on a limb, or in a loft,
or with a pen and writing
while sprawled across the floor.
The hours were never long enough,
the moments though extended,
even spread across a night.
© T A Price 2014
(Singer photo wikimedia commons)
