Sewing Sanity

When I was nine my great grandma put a needle in my handles
She told me everyone should know these stitches
I watched her closely and mimiced her movements
Her hands moved gracefully in sheer spite of the arthritis
The needle reflecting the summer sunset from through the window
She'd tell me stories from Ireland and the bible
Fairytales and religion, about our family
All while she taught me how to sew
Sometimes it would be all of us there
All of us kids around the too small table
A massive pile of scrap fabric, spools, needles and such things
I'm the only one who sews now it seems
Always reteaching my siblings how to sew
But I had the patience and love to learn patchwork
I'd fix their buttons, their jeans and shirts
Mending is a lost art it seems...
Cloth isnt built like it once was long ago
Its designed to fray and fade nowadays
Always having to buy new shirts, new pants
Damn near new everything year after year
The memory of my great grandma mumbling about it
Never really goes far from my mind when buying fabric
I love to sew by hand... It feels like shes here beside me
The needle goes in, the needles come out
The needle draws blood if you aren't careful
It connects me to my family history and my past
I remember my cousins and siblings sticking needles
In and through the calluses of on our fingers
Bragging about how much pain we could withstand
I have so many memories featuring needles