The memories of a mother’s acts of love toward her young, translated…
In our family’s LINE groups, my mother LINED a photo, it was a pair of sweats she’d altered for one of her grandchildren, and told the grandson to remember to pick it up. I’d thought about my almost eighty-year-old mother, sat underneath the lamplight, with her reading glasses, focused on tightening the waist of the pair of sweats, I’d felt a bit soured in my eyes.
My mother has a pair of slender hands, when she was younger, her fingers were long and delicate, and as her aged, her hands remained the same, like she was, destined to do the sewing. There was a black-and-white photo of me when I was just three, so chubby, I was wearing a skirt with the suspenders. My mother who’d never taken sewing lessons told me, that it was made solely for me, with her measuring me up, making the designs, cutting up the cloths needed, then, stitch, by stitch. It was, really hard for me to imagine, that my mother at 23, without any lessons in sewing, could’ve made that cute dress measuring to the qualities of professionals.
illustration from the papers…
Later we’d bought a secondhand sewing machine, and my mother started making the drapes, fixed the clothes for her three children who are growing too fast. I’d asked, “Mom, since you have a sewing machine, why don’t we ever get new clothes made?”, my mother would always smile and replied, “I’d not done any real sewing yet, I can only do the alters, and, the clothes I made, people will laugh upon.”
But, I’d still believed, that any of the older items my mother patched up is way better than those items sold in the shops. a month before my elementary graduation, I’d burned a hole in my white uniform on the back, we’re not rich, and I’d not wanted to get a brand new shirt, and asked my mother to patch the hole up for me. In the end, a patch that looked like the cross-section of a tree trunk was showing up on my shirt, as my fellow classmates saw, they’d become curious, and I’d told them proudly, “My mom patched it for me!” and I’d worn that shirt with the patch, until I graduated.
like this mom is doing??? Photo from online…
The swallow’s nest was filled, then emptied again, repeatedly, and, in the clicking of the pedals of the sewing machines, my mother’s hair turned white, and, she’d, marked the way to our growths, but, nobody can recall, when that sewing machine was, finally, retired.
Many years ago, I fell really ill, and my mother who’s already showing signs of her elderly years, other than looking after me, she’d also found the time, to loosen down my shirts and pants, so I can fit in my clothes with more ease. I knew how heavy my mother’s heart must’ve been, as she’d, threaded the needles, I’d hugged her tightly and cried, and, begged that I will have more time, to repay her back.
Seeing that photo of my mother altering the waistline of her grandchildren’s pants on LINE, although it was just sewing up the loosened suspenders, taking out the old and placing in the new, but, in the creases and folds of the clothes, there was, the unspoken love of a mother.
So, there’s so much of this mother’s love shown to her children, in the clothes she’d altered for them, and this mother was able to, use her skills, to make the memories that her children had, come to cherish.
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