A sewing machine

Today is the FIVE YEAR anniversary of my mom’s death. Hard to believe the world has been without the small-but-mighty force that was Nancy Robison for half a decade. As you may know, I invented a tradition where I share a memory of my parents on their respective deathiversaries each year, so here’s one for Mom: a sewing machine.

This old, white, bulky thing—probably from the 80s? My mom was hardly a housewife; she owned a business and was out of the house for most of the day. But whenever Halloween approached—or when my sister and I were in a play, or when we went on the school field trip to the pioneer village, or any number of other occasions—my mom would pull out her sewing machine and set it at the end of the dining room table.

My sister and I never had store-bought costumes. It never occurred to me to ask for one, because I just assumed my mom would make them. I was a monarch butterfly, I was a princess, I was a vampire. She used sewing patterns; I don’t think she would have been confident enough in her skills to design these costumes whole cloth. But they were much nicer than anything we would have found at Wal-Mart.

I wish I’d appreciated that more at the time—but I was a kid, so I can’t be too hard on myself. I also wish she’d taught me how to sew. We talked about it, but it never happened.

I don’t know if we still have the sewing machine; if we do, it would be up at my sister’s place somewhere. Maybe I’ll find it next time I visit and teach myself—or at the very least, give it to someone who would make better use of it. I can distinctly remember the sound it made when she pushed the pedal, a soft thwip-thwip-thwip, faster and slower as the needle and thread journeyed through the fabric.