"The gears are broken," the repairman said,
"It's not worth fixing. It's from 1982, after all...they don't make them like this any more."
Like so many things, it's worn out.
A newer, shinier machine can do the same job more efficiently.
It's just stuff, I know. It's a piece of metal. It's not a person.
Still, the news of what feels like its untimely death makes me weep.
I need it...two tiny Easter dresses, some bright-as-spring pillow covers for the sofa, a yet-uncovered back window...what will I do without it?
I want to hug it, hold onto it tightly.
This is more than a sewing machine.
Bought for my mother by my father when I was not yet three, it has sewn the stitches of my life.
Curtains for the houses where we lived together.
The dresses my sister and I wore to our father's memorial service.
My first doll clothes, stitched clumsily from scrap fabric.
The quilt I took to college, pieced by my mother and my sisters and me, side by side.
Curtains for the first house where I lived without them (because you can take the sewing machine, but you have to leave your family behind).
The quilt that covered my first child in his crib.
It has done its job well
(so well that "good and faithful servant" does not seem like hyperbole).
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