I can feel her eyes at my back as I ‘clack clack‘ on my new outlet. I pause and turn to confirm.
Today she has the look of disappointment on her face. Her thin lips are folded downward as she shakes her head in silence, returning to her sewing. Well, it is better than her angry look, with precedes her shouting and my eventual ire.
Disappointment is good.
A small smile tugs at the corners of my lips as I turn back to survey my work.
We are sitting in the small living room that had been converted into a workspace because of our lack of room.
She on her sewing machine, I on my typewriter.
Whirr whirr whirr
Clack clack clack
On a normal evening, the cacophony of the clacking keys and the whirring machine would lull me into a near doze; mind dulled by the monotonous sound.
Today isn’t one of those days.
We had THE argument again; the one about my ‘career’.
Why won’t you follow my path? Be a seamstress. Stop living in a fool’s paradise. We cannot afford your hobby. You cannot possibly make a living from writing!
She never understood my need to write. She still hasn’t forgiven me for selling my meagre jewelry to buy a deadbeat typewriter.
A waste of time, she had hissed as she watched me clean my joy meticulously, the day i bought it.
She had even threatened to throw the junk away; had it been my blazing eyes or my thinly veiled threat to sell her sewing machine that made her disembark from that train of thought?
I hear her sigh again.
My fingers hover hesitantly on the black letter keys.
I rip out the paper I had been typing on and insert a new one carefully.
Clack clack clack
I title the page.
I turn to watch my mother out of the corner of my eyes as she works and the opening paragraph comes to me:
“Her head bent as she sews.
My head bent as I write.
A weaver of cloth; a weaver of words.
Would she ever realise we’re one and the same?
Two different methods.
But one purpose; Creation.”
I stop and smile.
I suddenly wonder if I’d be able to turn and spin my first paragraph into a book.
I should be able to; I am the daughter of a seamstress aren’t I?
Cutting and piecing things together should come natural to me.
I wonder if she’d like it if she read it.