As a Story Terrace writer, Sharon interviews customers and turns their life stories into books. Get to know her better by reading her autobiographical anecdote below
“Mom, mom, I’m sewing a dress and it’s for you.”
As a naïve 14-year-old I hoped the news would bring Mom back to life. But she continued to lay motionless, wrapped up in gauze, with an octopus-like series of tubes connected to a ventilator that reminded me of the divers in Sea Hunt.
“But Mom’s going to be okay, right?” I asked my 18-year-old sister Cassie, who was always ready with quick answers. Not that day. She wiped her eyes and herded my 16-year-old sister Pauline and I out the door and down to a hallway full of plastic chairs filled with old Italian women wearing black kerchiefs, dresses, and stockings sagging at the knee. Among them was my always cheerful Auntie Nita. As I sat down, I adjusted the brown gingham empire dress I had just finished in home economics and thought about how proud Mom would be when she saw her dress.
Mom had always set a high creative bar. She could crochet baby booties and blankets in a day and knit all the scarves, hats, mittens, and sweaters we kids could abuse and lose in a season. I still have the picture of my sisters and brother lined up in front of Uncle George’s Dodge four-door sedan on the way to Easter service smiling broadly in dresses and coats designed and sewn by Mom, accompanied by black patent leather shoes, straw hats, and white gloves.
The Mom I knew as a stern, sometimes down-right scary parent who rarely expressed affection, became someone else when we sat together sewing. Her demeanor softened. It was like we were friends playing with fabric and thread. Though she only spoke to place pins, direct scissors and guide stiches, there were words between the words and silences that bonded us in a special way.
Still, I couldn’t cry that day. I could not imagine a world without Mom’s inspiring light. I ran back to her melon green room where the nurses were removing her breathing tube. My stepfather Stan sat on the edge of the bed.
“Do you think Mom heard what I said about making her a dress,” I asked sitting next to him.
Before he could answer I added, “Though it might not be any good cause I’m just learning.”
As I reached for her hand, Mom’s eyes slowly slit open. One finger lifted from her lifeless hand to stroke mine. Her voice came out as if in slow motion, like a tape recorder whose batteries were running low.
“It doesn’t matter. If you made it, my chest will be sticking out twice as far as it should. I’ll be so proud.”
