THE FABRIC OF LIFE
by Margaret Skipworth
I eased open my sleep-crusted eyes and listened. In the next room, the sewing machine whirred like an old man's snore. I tugged the scratchy brown blanket over my chin. It was still dark. My mom always started work
before dawn.
I smiled. The extra money earned from her sewing would buy me a pair of sandals. Perhaps...I dared to hope...a small bag of candies. I licked my lips and twirled an imaginary stick of licorice round my tongue.
The machine buzzed into life again - a fearless monster, snatching angrily at the cloth, gripping the material tightly between its teeth.
I could see my mom bent over the Singer with its gleaming new motor. Mom's brow creased. Her rough, careworn hands gently guiding the material, as she steered us in a straight line through the machine of life.
Snip. Snip. Threads cut. An argument with my brother. Joined together again by my mother's skilful hands.
Broken cotton. Disappointment at not being chosen for the swimming team. A new spool on the machine. A different colored thread - the color of expectation.
Two scraps of cloth with ragged edges. Like grazed knees. Torn. Tatty. Patched and stitched.
I felt my eyelids drooping. I drifted back to sleep. Safe. Secure. Whatever flaws or tears appeared throughout the day in the fabric of my life, I knew my mom would be there to repair them.
No raw edges left to fray.
My childhood - a perfect seam.
ends..
Margaret is a former newspaper journalist who started writing fiction as a hobby while bringing up her two daughters. Her short stories have been published in magazines in the UK and Australia and on the internet. She particularly enjoys entering writing competitions with given themes as these give her the chance to flex her creative muscles. She lives on the east coast of England with her husband, George, and an eccentric budgerigar.
