My First

A young woman sits by the lamp in the warm lighting, a needle and thread in one hand and a torn pant leg in the other.  She is hunched over the pant leg, stitching slowly and deliberately.  Her brow is furrowed in thoughtfulness and frustration.  The phone rings.  She pricks herself and lets out a cry.
She picks up the receiver, talks a little, listens a little, and squeals with delight.  A week later she carries in a large bag and an armful of books.  She has just been to her close friends' home and is grinning from ear to ear.  They have been downsizing.  She has reaped the spoils.

Her husband helps her to put away the books as she unloads the large bag on the dining room table in their small apartment dwelling.  She removes a small booklet, a bag of pleating pins, and a plastic container.  Now, for the crowning moment.  Slowly, she unsheathes the cream-colored plastic form and marvels at the knobs and metal attachments- a joyful glint in her eyes.  With giddy delight she sets it up on a table in the corner of the living area, setting a chair and her sewing boxes at its side.  She carefully reads the small booklet, an owner's manual, that her friend had been kind enough to include.  On each page with its labelled diagrams she looks up at the marvelous machine, corresponding each piece to the picture.  Dark blue thread in hand, she prepares the delicate task of threading.

Weaving and pulling, manipulating the navy strand through close spaces, the excitement rises within her bosom.  Each step brings her ever closer to a new freedom.  An old dream.  It is a dream of flowing skirts and stiff petticoats, fitted bodices and beautiful sleeves.  It all begins with this first.

My first Sewing machine.