MARIELA MARTINEZ I how my grandmother sews in the night I

by Marie/a Martinez

The sewing machine is right across from my room, where the open door frames my mothers hunched back. The machine sits in front of the big open window in the living room. I sit in my bed thinking I can sleep through anything. The sewing machine noise. The pain in my mothers back. The weariness of her eyes. The wheels on the outdated sewing machine turn. She pushes the petal. The needle bobs up and down, up and down. Her fingers pull the fabric forward carefully keeping it taut and straight. The thread enters the fabric as it moves in and out in and out through the needle. The thread trembles as its pushed into fabric. The floor shakes as she pushes down. An oscillating silence fills the pauses in her movements. When she's done with one piece she holds it up and looks for loose ends to trim. Snip, snip, snip. I know that when she first came to this place, when she first sat down at this job, her sister told her that there cannot be any loose ends. All the rushed mistakes she would take home to sew in the night. Like tonight, she sews in the night.

I get up and go to her. I tap her on the shoulder and ask her, "^Cuando te vas a dormirr My voice sounds sleepy and hoarse. Her eyes look at me with the same intensity that she uses to meticulously search for mistakes on the delicate fabrics she sews. She takes both her hands off the machine, uses one hand to hold my face and the other to gently grab my hand. Her hands are short, stubby and wrapped in little Band-Aids where she accidently cut herself while trimming. "Ya mero termino," she says. She pulls me toward the kitchen where she heats up milk and mixes it with pink Nesquick powder. We sit silently while I drink it from a small pink cup. Then she comes to lie in bed with me. She strokes my forehead with her fingers. The bumpy layers of Band-Aids feel strangely comforting. She soon rests her head next to me as she waits for me to sleep. I close my eyes and soon grow sleepy. She notices this and slowly lifts herself and returns to her machine. She is about to push down on the petal to start her work again. She hesitates. Then, reaches over to a drawer next to the machine. She pulls out two unfinished skirts and raises them to the light of the sewing machine. The skirts are made of red, white, and green fabric. They are big, long, with white ruffles that frame the trimming. One is for my older sister and one is for me. We will wear them on December 12th, El dia de la Virgen de Guadalupe, to the church where we will pray, sing and dance all night with our mom. She takes one of the skirts in her hands and looks it over adding pins to hold the lacing in place. The she moves it forward beneath the needle. The sound of the machine purring in the night lulls me to sleep. That purring sound is the sound of love and sacrifice treaded together in the night.