Sewing Machine

Sewing machine, long idle, gathered dust in Grandma's loft I found, the week after we laid her to rest next to her slain husband. He was only twenty four yet a squadron leader when his spitfire was shot down over France. Mother was only three at the time and my uncle a babe in Grandma's arms. How awful yet how familiar those sad stories were then. The war years seemed like only yesterday when Grandma would tell us of Grandfather's gallantry in the face of an evil oncoming foe. Those stories now came flooding back as I rummaged in the attic of her cottage with a candle to guide my way, tears smarting as I imagined myself as Mother then, missing a father. The candle sputtered, spent, and all was dark.