Ghost in the Sewing Machine
My breath snagged in my chest. What could possibly be moving under that fabric?
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Alone in my studio late one Monday night, as I scribbled in my sketchbook, I detected movement out of the corner of my eye. The bright blue cloth cloaking the vintage cast-iron sewing machine rustled, like a restless creature moved within. My breath snagged in my chest. What could possibly be under there?
Summoning a shred of courage, I snatched away the fabric with a flourish, an unnerved magician’s reveal. A needle, threaded with white cotton, slowly bobbed up and down, up and down, all by itself. No fabric, no guiding hands, just the plodding motion of a phantom seamstress.
The sewing machine, an ebony-black Singer Featherweight from the 1950s, belonged to my mother. Her friend, the original owner, gave it to her as a present. My mom added it as a jewel in the crown of her small collection of sewing machines. She’d hunch over the machines, zipping along on the speediest settings as quilts and A-line skirts and patchwork placemats formed a mountain of future gifts around her. During summer break, she’d haul her gear to her second-grade classroom for sewing camp, where she shared her skills with the next generation of…
