If a Machine Could Talk

With a click of a button, you appear, a warm familiar face with wrinkles and character. Our daily visits create inspiring works, detailed and unique. I wonder what new pattern you designed, what fabric you picked out. I come from generations of partners to your craft, and my earliest ancestor sits behind you on a shelf, proudly displayed an a knit doily.

Double-vision from your disability does not hinder you from skillfully threading my needle. You could do this if you were blind. I eagerly anticipate the feel of the layers of cloth beneath my foot, gliding with the help of your steady hands. The colors are vibrant, and I ache to know what will emerge. This fabric is lighter than the jean fabric I was accustomed to. All those trips to the thrift store to find the perfect pair, cut apart, pieced together as works of art. They found homes with women around the USA, purses slung like graceful garlands across their shoulders, with the spunk of denim. The fabric today is delicate, and I hum along to the music of your creation as piece after piece comes together. My singing, my satisfaction reflect your decades of dedication to our relationship.

My mother, a Kenmore that happily created with you for over 40 years, reveled in you teaching your children on your lap, your hands over theirs. Now I, a Pfaff, watch you teach your grandchildren the same way. I have assurance that my role in this world of creativity will not die with me, but will carry on through the generations you have taught. I know you value me and you taught others to as well. Our creations, gifted to many, show the recipients how precious and worthy they are.

I evolved to be rather complex next to my earliest ancestor gracing the shelf behind you. She is small, a sturdy Kay-ee Sew Master, and requires you to spin her wheel by hand to make her needle move. As a ten-year-old girl, you constructed many articles of doll clothes from your mother’s fabric scraps with the reliable help from my grandmother. That sturdy reliability has been passed on. My mother witnessed countless children’s dresses, Halloween costumes, and quilts pass through her humble and determined foot. Your foot, not your hand, propelled my mother’s needle.

For me, many memories were stitched together in quilts, sometimes with tears pouring from your eyes. One quilt fabric was different. It was t-shirts. I came to understand that these tiny shirts were your grandson’s. Your love poured into these quilts unlike any other. Remembering the bear baby quilt you made for him, I puzzled at the tears. This wasn’t joy I saw in your tears, it was pain. Four of those t-shirt quilts were made, each with a tiny pocket. With the most love I had ever felt in your hands and foot. They were beautiful, and cherished. You added a hand-written note to three grandchildren missing their brother, tucked into the pocket. You struggled to write one last note to your daughter and son-in-law for the last quilt. What words do you use? Sometimes I help you bring comfort and solace to others through our creations, comfort in the deepest and most painful of losses. Not the happy, colorful Halloween costumes my mother made, but they hold more meaning, more distinction. No more quilts have been made. These were the grand finale.

But we aren’t done changing the world. We churned out custom Christmas stockings, even one for the grandson lost. We’ve constructed gnomes to grace people’s mantles, because our creations are meant to bring joy to the world. And they do. We’ve made hundreds of masks, triple layer, perfectly fitting, because you know how to help improve even a worldwide, dark situation.

I have been so honored to be a part of your journey, a part of bringing healing, joy, and health. Your friendship builds on generations of machines watching you grow from a little girl, hand-spinning a needle, to being an elderly woman, determined to bring joy through our craft. So, I wonder today, what are we making?