A Fridge, a Sewing Machine

I learned to sew here,
Mom’s old place -- now so empty
you can hear the refrigerator running,
like it's trying to remind me
of prank calls I used to make,
and mom's exasperated gaze.
 

The fridge sings through the hall,
past the phone and up the stairs.
In the attic, her old Singer --
a wheel and a foot pedal --
stopped
in the middle of fixing
my torn jeans.
 

I sit at the sewing machine
and close my eyes.
I play hide and seek
with the contours of her face,
but I find only
my own pricked fingers
running over folded fabric
for a Halloween costume.
I find a child's call
for a mother's help,
and her rush to add the finishing touch.
I squint to catch her face in the mirror,
but she turns away, contorting into
hugs and the smell of baked bread --
and the brush of her hair against my cheek
traces her silhouette on my skin.
 

I open my eyes to the hole in my jeans.
(I'm still playing hide and seek.)
I cover the mirrors with bedsheets
so she has no place to hide.
 

Downstairs, the fridge keeps whirring,
like the wheel of a sewing machine
trying to piece everything back together.
 

(updated version, original in comments)

1 2