Day Forty Two

On Empathy

Those who know me well understand how empathetic I am.  I feel your pain.  I believe it is why I love stories so much.  In a good book or movie I am transcended into the world portrayed.  I also adore dance for the same reason.  And art.  And music.  Currently I'm mired down a bit in teen angst here.  It is a difficult time to be young.

I went mining for objects to let go of and on a whim faced my mother's sewing machine.  It is a beautiful old Singer in a cabinet with little drawers.  I dumped each drawer out and surveyed the contents.  I have early childhood memories of watching my mother at this sewing machine, back in her more domestic phase.  I even have one very very vivid childhood memory of flying (seriously) and remember she was sewing with her back to me when I did it.  Before I knew I couldn't.  I touched all the things in the little drawers that I know she touched; curtain hooks, spools of thread, fingernail files and name tags from three different casinos.  I miss my mother.  She would get such a kick out of my Gypsy Wagon plan; I can see just how she'd look at me as I explained it to her and I know just what she'd say about it to others when I wasn't around.  She'd be mock horrified but secretly proud; she'd understand.

Into the red bucket go the following:

1.  A baggie full of packages of seam binding
2.  A baggie full of safety pins
3.  A baggie full of curtain hooks
4.  A small ornament in the shape of a star (this was not my mother's)
5.  A black velour overshirt that I always thought was kind of pretty but my kids tell me is hideous