Originally shared on Instagram
I wept making this skirt.
My grandmother Christine was the family seamstress. She taught my father how to sew, who taught me on an old Singer machine not many generations off from the foot-pedal machine my grandma had. She tailored clothing for all 8 of her children and my grandfather in their small homestead cabin on the shore of Smoothstone Lake.
I wept making this skirt. I wondered if she spent cold winter evenings the same way I was- disenchanted with the world, a heart aching with grief. I sat and sewed and ached to know her- my grandma, and I wondered how many nights she spend aching for her children away at residential schools hundreds of kilometers away.
Did she make clothing for her babies not know if they'd fit come the next time they'd meet again? Was that too hard to bear, too hard making tiny shirts and pants and dresses and just was unbearable once the leaves started to turn?
I can't imagine. I can't even imagine sharing these words with my Dad and Auntie because this grief feels so thick and messy.
I wept cutting this skirt, ironing this skirt, pinning this skirt, sewing this skirt. I weep wearing this skirt now.
As far as I know grandma never had silky ribbon or obnoxious rainbow fabric to make her skirts. She kept it simple, even for dressier affairs. More practical in the bush too. This skirt means something new for a generation of granddaughters who never got to know their grandmothers. So I make and wear this skirt, and I let it hit the ground. And I weep.
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