Running stitch

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.


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Running stitch


This week, in dVerse Poetics, Mary wants us dig around at home and unearth something special to write about.

A sewing box might not seem special, but like many things that we keep, it has huge sentimental value for me. I hope you enjoyed my poem, which really is quite straightforward. My mum made this sewing box for me just after I left university and I can still remember how pleased I was to receive it, miles away from hearth and home. Funny – this would suit my mum down to the ground. She has all kinds of little things secreted away – memories of me, my sister and my brother and our growing up stages. I know she has some extracts of stories I wrote when I was a little girl – filed away in The Sideboard!

Do pop over to the dVerse community and see what the rest of us magpie poets have decided to share. The pub opened at 3pm EST, so come on in!