Gemotions

The gentle hum of the sewing machine was a familiar comfort. My grandmother’s passion was sewing; she made dresses, from simple cotton frocks to elaborate gowns, and taught me everything she knew. It was what she loved. My daughter, Lily, seven, had adopted her talent with fervor.

Today, however, the needle stuttered. Her grandmother was unwell. She wasn't her usual self. Her needle work was off, and she was silent.

I saw her sorrow, a mirror of my own. I went and sat with her. I knew the kind of sadness.

"Lily," I said, my voice gentle, "why don't you try making a small doll for her? A special one?" I showed her a tutorial. She started, her small hands slowly working, and some of the light returned to her face.