PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I can perfectly recall those times when my grandma would sit by the sewing machine. Her delicate hands helping a piece of cloth go through the raging needle. Helping a simple piece of cloth turn into that dress I used to wear almost every Sunday. A dress you could label and it would have been sold like a big well-known brand. Perhaps my perception was just so much love, perhaps it was because I was a little girl, amazed by my grandmother’s skill. I knew many women were able to do that, but my grandma… it was such a special thing. It was some sort of magic spectacle, she would take a square and turn it into that blouse my mother always complimented. Then, pleased by the recognition, she would take another big square and turn it into a nice skirt that made my mom feel as she was just floating around. Or so she used to say. For every familiar reunion, she had the best outfit, made by herself. She is really skinny, really short, the kind of body that makes difficult for an old woman to find the right clothes, and still every piece made her seem flawless. Always being modest, she used to say those were just pieces of cloth we could all wear and we could all make by ourselves. Perhaps it was true, but no one of us would have ever gotten even closer to what she used to make. It was not about the technique or how precise she was (because, to be honest, her clothes were not perfect in terms of precision), it was about how she made us feel and what she saw in us. Every single thing she made for us was made specially and uniquely for us, not only for our bodies, but for our personalities, what we got inside. She had such a special touch that is worth being remembered. Now her hands shake and her body is tired, she sits by the sewing machine just to feel the same sensation again. The magic is still there, but her ideas, the girl shaking her dress in the big field of her house, the woman floating around, can’t be brought to light anymore. As for me, I grew up and I don’t get any more of my grandma’s clothes, but when I my the closet, I can still see it, a piece of magic just hanging in the shadows, always bringing back the memory of the good days I can never forget.