The Sewing Room

The sewing box in the living room

that came from my grandmother's house

still smells like her sewing room.

When I inhaled that dusty, woody scent,

I was sent back to that small room in her house

where I tried to learn to crochet.

I remembered all those times I saw my grandmother 

toss down her sewing in frustration

when her arthritis rendered her no longer able to hold a needle. 

I remembered those times I saw her trying not to laugh

at my 7 year-old self sitting on the floor at her feet

trying to thread a needle, with my tongue lolling out of my mouth.

I remembered how genuinely happy I was in that room

with the rainbow of thread and yarn arranged neatly on pegs

on the wall beside the window.

I'd give anything to sit on that floor once more

and inhale the glorious scent

of my grandmother's sewing room.

Reviews

[Iris]

It' is tragic when the smell eventually goes away and there is nothing left but your memories that have no basis to cling on. Great work, Sarah.

[Tomás Ó C..]

Lovely tribute of a fond memory...

[Writer at last! Sky ~]

Beautiful poem and good to see that your memories took you back in the golden days of your life!

[Bare trees]

The smells are what I remember also. My grandparents had a cabinet with a particular flowery smell to it I recall that I can still smell today. This is a really nice poem.