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When I was little, my mother sewed. She didn't do it often; she didn't like it very much. But she did like to see me in neat outfits that she had made herself.
I remember once we had a beautiful, beautiful bolt of red cloth, thin and shimmery and a deep blood red. Textured, a bit rough against the skin. I loved it. Mama let me cut bits from it to make dresses for Barbie dolls, pouches for myself, bits of collages....
I learned only some while afterward that she had intended it to be a dress for me, but had not gotten around to making it. Eventually she realized I'd used too much of it to leave a dress (especially as I hadn't been careful to just take from one end).
I was terribly disappointed that I'd ruined my dress. In retrospect, it's just as well. The fabric was very pretty, but it was a bit rough. I suspect I'd've complained about the dress itching.
And somewhere, years ago and miles away, is a small red pouch filled with cloves. And it smells wonderful, and it looks wonderful, and a little girl is revelling in it.
Some memories are worth the loss of other, potential, ones.
I remember once we had a beautiful, beautiful bolt of red cloth, thin and shimmery and a deep blood red. Textured, a bit rough against the skin. I loved it. Mama let me cut bits from it to make dresses for Barbie dolls, pouches for myself, bits of collages....
I learned only some while afterward that she had intended it to be a dress for me, but had not gotten around to making it. Eventually she realized I'd used too much of it to leave a dress (especially as I hadn't been careful to just take from one end).
I was terribly disappointed that I'd ruined my dress. In retrospect, it's just as well. The fabric was very pretty, but it was a bit rough. I suspect I'd've complained about the dress itching.
And somewhere, years ago and miles away, is a small red pouch filled with cloves. And it smells wonderful, and it looks wonderful, and a little girl is revelling in it.
Some memories are worth the loss of other, potential, ones.