From a shroud of fog, specters of my ancestors appear. A teapot, tarnished sterling. Handmade Valentine’s Day cards to my mother. Old Butterick patterns. Blouse, skirt, A-line dress. Passports and past lives sheathed in Ziplock bags—Peru, Morocco, Austria, Greece.
In the dim silence of a 40-watt bulb, future me collides with the comforting past. Here, in attic shadows, lie glimmers of my grandparents: sketches and portraits, a battered Bonwit Teller hatbox adorned with violets, filled with yellowed lace and photographs.
A time capsule, these scraps of life, preserved in the centuries-old attic amber for discovery by a future civilization.
I remember them well--and NOT sewing. Mom was the seamstress. I sucked!
I remember old Butterwick patterns...