When I had no grey sprinkled in my hair
and when wearing glasses
was more of a fashion statement than a necessity,
I was given this, my sewing box.
It’s not an heirloom
(although it could be).
It wouldn’t fetch much in a sale
(although it should).
It means far more to me
than many other things I have accumulated over the years.
It was made with love.
I know that underneath the purple-patterned material
there is only wadding, the stiffest card
and hundreds of tiny stitches.
It’s nothing special, in the grand scheme of things.
But I imagine my mum,
curled over the dining table,
carefully cutting out
the hexagons and the rectangles,
placing right-sides together,
pins pressed between pursed lips
as she concentrates on her task.
I imagine her stepping back and smiling
as she places the lid on top,
the satisfyingly perfect fit a testament to her precision,
and her desire to make something for me that I would love.
It must be twenty years old, this box of delights
and it has stood the test of time.
I have stored my needles, threads, pins, zips, buttons and ribbons within,
but most of all, I have loved it.
Thank you, Mum.