Dear Mom

Dear Mom,

I wish you were here. 

You could hem my pants.

I say this not because there’s no one else to do it, but because we’d laugh about how hemming is not a skill that I possess. 

Sewing—in general—is just not me. 

You tried to teach me. You were a master seamstress—and could make anything. You’d buy a dress you loved, take it home to study how it was made, make your own pattern for it, and return the dress.

I, on the other hand, have sewed just two things in my whole life. The first was for a Girl Scout badge—a nightgown with an elastic collar. The fabric was light pink with smiling white kitten faces on it. And you, Mom, helped me stitch it together.

The second was a pullover ¾-zip jacket for 8th-grade Home Economics class. I remember struggling with it, so Joely, a girl in my class, helped me finish it. I think we got an A.

But other than those two things—and maybe a button here or there—I have not come remotely close to sewing anything else for over 50 years.

If you were here today, Mom, we’d laugh about that. 

You would have also laughed about the Barbie movie. We would have gone to see it together. You dressed perfectly like all those Barbies—even down to the ridiculously high heels, which you called your Barbie shoes. 

But you, too, had lots of skills. You made crafts. You built good campfires. You could decorate a drop-dead gorgeous Christmas tree. Decorate bulletin boards.

I thought of you when we were in Budapest recently and little kids near Buda Castle were selling chestnut figures for .25 Euros each. They had glued chestnuts together and drew tiny faces on them. 

You had taught me to make tiny figures just like that—but koalas, from acorns and brown pipe cleaners. And we sold them at craft fairs. Just like those that we found halfway around the world!

Mom, I wish I could tell you about those.

And I wish I had listened better when you tried to teach me how to sew. 

Perhaps I could stitch together that hole that’s been here since you left 16 years ago.

Sometimes, I’m simply aware of that gaping hole and I just allow it to be the blank spot that it is. Other times, I go on with my life and try to fill it with other memories. But that hole has a place, doesn’t it? 

Your empty space is a gift that just keeps giving. 

Even after all this time.

It’s that hole that still makes me remember that pink fabric with kittens on it and you showing me how to create an elastic neck on a nightgown.

Just because I could, I googled “pink kitten fabric 1980s.” And I found an image of the fabric. I recognized it immediately. There it was, in its full glory, a half ream for sale of it on eBay. It was $14. 

I thought about buying it to turn it into a nightgown—maybe for a potential grandchild. But I wouldn’t really know what to do with a half bolt of fabric.

And I’m not sure I want to learn.

Friends, what holes in your life tug at your sleeves now and then?

What are you learning from them?

And Mom, can you tell me if there’s a hole in your life now where I used to fit?

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