-- My Grandmother, the Seamstress --

John Herlihy

My grandmother was an expert seamstress.

She worked hard sewing all of her long life.

Worked to put food on the table for her children.

Afternoons, I sat beside her threading her needles.

She rocked and rocked as she worked away,

My job to thread needles for my beloved grandma.

Some days, she rocked entire afternoons away,

Entire afternoons away with me by her side.

Right there by her side, I liked being with her,

Time meant nothing when sitting with grandma.

By her side felt right; I showed her my things;

My little things she always took an interest in.

She even asked to see them again the next day,

Or commented on something I had showed her.

She asked about it as if it were really important.

Fact is, she asked about it as if she really cared.

What did I understand but that she cared.

She cared about me and I cared about her.

I cared about her like I cared about none other.

We really cared about each other, the needle,

My eye always on the needle, my job for her.

You could thread that needle in the dark, she said.

In the dark, she affirmed, and I felt the compliment.

When I arrived, her hair loose in a bun. She smiled.

And I smiled in return, my hair falling into my eyes.

She looked at me straight in the eyes, no hesitation,

Always straight and frank, and I knew she loved me.

I was just a little boy and didn’t know what love was.

But when she looked at me, I knew that she loved me,

While others smile to me as a child, but without love.

She rocked away the afternoon, and I rocked with her,

Her pale, wrinkled, ravaged by life face looked noble.

And serene. What a boy, what an eye with a needle,

She always said and I felt proud. I did have a good eye.

One day, with that good eye, I saw something happen.

She was sewing and sewing and rocking, a red thimble,

A red thimble on her thumb, always on her thumb, red.

The sewing stopped of a sudden, the hands went limp for once.

For once, the hands went limp, as they never went limp before.

The rocking continued, but not for long, and then stopped.

With that magic eye of mine, the eye on the eye of the needle,

I saw her eyes closed, no surprise there, had happened before.

Granny, I said, giving her a gentle poke, I threaded your needle.

But when I looked at her again, expecting her to wake up,

I felt, I knew she would never again see the light of her day,

Knew I would never again see the light of my day in her day.

Her face had folded down, like closed bird wings, eyelids closed,

Like a book closed, or the sun set, the drapes hanging in folds.

She needed me no longer, even if I still needed her very much.

Her rocker was still now, with a stillness that felt like a mountain.

In all the time I had spent with her, I never envisioned her gone.

Gone she was, but only a moment, until I realize she was with me.

With me still, a boy no longer, with my eye on the eye of the needle.

- - - - - -

(c) John Herlihy 24 May 2020