I have spent the last few weeks helping to make masks. My roommate has produced hundreds. I just sewed what she told me to. I was hesitant to sit down at a machine---I inherited three from my mother, all when she was alive. She never could turn down a fancier one. And I got all the cast-offs. I used to sew every day, dolls, bags, a few clothes here and there.
But it turns out, I miss that. Not the showing of part, but the other part, no matter what weird thing it was, she was proud of me.
I'm really pretty old to need that, and I know it. I don't really. Doesn't mean I don't miss it. Doesn't mean I don't miss her. To the left is her playing with a sock monster that I made. Sitting at the booth for lunch of course. She took him home, and now he sits on my bed.
This last bit was different. There were two sewing machines set up on the kitchen table, and my housemates all sat around, each with a job. Pinning, sewing straps, sewing the masks into a rectangle, then the pleating. It felt good to be doing something useful. We talked about stuff, more than we had living cooped up for weeks. And I keep thinking about my mom. She would have loved seeing us making these. She would have called it our very own stitch and bitch club.