Grandma's Clothes Anonymous

What a familiar sight, I thought to myself as I subconsciously stopped to stare through the display window. A couple of mannequins were dressed in half-finished garments, surrounded by waves of colourful fabrics cascading down the table. Pools of thread scattered among oddly shaped buttons. And on the right side of the window – an old-fashioned Singer sewing machine. The same intricate golden patterns on the body, the same shiny black finish. Just like Grandma’s.

Grandma loved to sew. Most of all, she loved to make clothes for me, her only grandchild. I used to sit and watch her peddle on the machine for hours, her fingers deftly navigating the fabric under the needle, until I'd fall asleep to the humming lullaby. When I'd open my eyes again, Grandma would be there, smiling, holding up a fresh new skirt or blouse for me. It always fit perfectly, and I would run outside to show my friends my new outfit, proudly telling them that Grandma had made it, just for me.

At least that was how it was before I moved to the city.

I pulled my eyes away from the display. My heels clicked against the pavement as I continued on my way home, thinking back to the time when I was twelve. That was the year of our big move, the year I started...