A Mother's Night

I am up late tonight to finish up some sewing. It is very late and every busy little body is snug in bed. Jeff, as usual, has dozed off in the middle of a really good show and will probably remain there all night. I am in the dining room, fabric strewn on the backs of chairs and the soft glow of the machine. I am ironing straps and the smell reminds me of my grandmother's house. I have ironed many straps and this was the first time this memory came to mind. I remember her calling me to her sewing room to try on a freshly ironed dress, or shirt, or pair of pants. I keep ironing.

I am listening to the Grateful Dead, singing along to ripple. Then, it shuffles to Janis Joplin's version of Summertime. I realize that, although I am tired, I am enjoying this time. I think of my mother. Here I am in the middle of the night, all alone in a house full of sleeping children, sewing and listening to music. My feet are cold from standing on the hardwood floors of an old house, no subfloor, no insulation. Although I have no memory of it myself, I know for a fact that my mother played this exact role in this exact scene years ago, with Hal and I dreaming in our beds. This thought makes me smile. Then I notice the pin cushion. Her pin cushion. If it could, I bet it would enjoy nights like this as much as I do.