Sewing

By Anon / Spring 2026

I sit at the small coffee table in front of the TV, my legs pressing against the uncomfortable carpet. The carpet is too rough for me, and I keep moving around trying to find a comfortable position. The table is covered by cloth and needles, the tools my grandma uses most often. Next to me, my grandma threads a needle without looking away from the TV. Her hands move quickly, they’ve done this a thousand times. I look at my own hands, one holding the needle and the other holding the bright green thread. I can’t seem to get the thread through the eye. Annoyed, I let out a long sigh.

“Slow down” she says as she watches her show.

“I’m going as slow as I can” I say with an annoyed tone.

The thread’s ends are splitting from the amount of time I tried to make it go through. My fingers feel too big and uncoordinated. She looks over at me. “Here let me cut the end for you.”  She leans over our small table, grabs scissors and cuts the tip of the thread without a second thought.

“Here, try again. It’ll be a lot easier this time.”  She says while gently taking my hands in hers. Her hands are warm and rough at the same time, I feel her callouses pressed against the back of my hand.

I frown, looking as confused as ever. “It’s hard.”

She guides my hands, slowly replicating the movement she was just doing. The thread slips through the needle’s eye on the first try. “You need to learn how to do these things.” She says after a moment “What will happen when I can’t help you anymore?” I don’t answer, I don’t even really understand the question. My grandma is always here. No matter what, she will always be.

She let’s go of my hands. This time I move slower, more carefully. My stitches are still uneven, wonky. They’re not even close to looking like hers. Occasionally, she looks away from her show and watches me. “Good.” She says approvingly. The room is quiet other than the faint noises coming from the TV. Cold air comes out from our mounted AC, blowing softly across the room.

After a while, she stands up and disappears into the kitchen. I hear cabinets opening and closing. When she comes back, she places a small plate next to me. Slices of fruit neatly arranged. It’s pomelo. “Eat” she says. “It’s good.”

I smile and take a piece, pomelos are my favorite. She watches me for a second and goes back to sewing.

After finishing sewing, I get up and tell her I’m hanging out with friends. She notices I’m not wearing a jacket. “It’s cold.” She says, already grabbing one.

“I don’t need it.” I argue knowing I’m running late.

“Just take it.” She insists as she presses the jacket into my hands. I roll my eyes but still put it on secretly knowing she’s right.

Now, several years later, I sit at my desk in college. My hands in front of me, holding my baby blanket that I’m trying to stitch together. The motions came naturally, slower than hers used to be but smoother than I remember mine being. I pause and fix my posture, I watch the needle carefully, I don’t rush anymore. I remember her words and wonder if she too remembers when she used to teach me how to sew.

I pick up my phone and call her.

“Hi grandma.” I say smiling.

She stares and smiles back at me. There’s a short pause “Are you studying?” she asks.

“I’m not, grandma. I’m sewing.”

“Oh, that’s nice” she says.

I wait for her to point out the flaws in my fabric like she used to but she just nods again.

“Did you eat?” She asks.

I smile, knowing at least she still cares.

“Yea, I did. I had pomelo.”

She nods again approvingly “Good.”

She hands come into view as she reaches to grab something behind that screen. I notice how frail they look now, how her movements aren’t as quick or confident as they used to be. The same hands that helped and guided me, now waver, seeming unsure of what to do next. I look at her for a few seconds before asking.

“Do you remember when you taught me how to sew?”

She looks up at me, quiet, sorry. Then shakes her head just enough so I could see.

Reality hit me, but I stay as calm as I can “We used to sit in front of the TV, you’d tell me to slow down every 5 seconds.”

She smiles a little and says, “That does sound like me.” I smile too, even though I can feel the tears forming in my eyes. The call ends, leaving me sitting there staring at my hands. I think about what she used to say, “What will happen when I can’t help you anymore?” These words haunt me, more than I ever thought they would. She has Alzheimer's now, slowly forgetting memories that used to mean so much to both of us.