If I could live anywhere in the world, I’d choose a place that doesn’t demand explanations or performances. I’ve lived in cities, deserts, the deep woods — turns out I can settle in just about any landscape as long as it leaves me room to disappear a little.
These days, I picture a small town within driving distance of my hideaway. A place where the market clerk nods without prying, and the librarian teases me about my tattered books but respects the depth of them. Guppy wouldn’t trust her at first, naturally. But a few well-timed treats would work faster than diplomacy ever could. Age catches up with all of us, but if anyone’s going on a diet, it’s her.
Most mornings would start the same: a meditation-heavy book cracked open, a good pen waiting, coffee steaming, my thoughts wandering until Guppy yanks me back to earth with a judgmental meow. Just enough contact with the world to keep me grounded — not enough to get invited to supper. (People get touchy when you say no.)
What I’m really chasing is a chance to breathe. A place where the air isn’t sharpened by worry, where everything isn’t a potential threat even when it isn’t one. Somewhere I can write without the static of the world pressing in, where anonymity isn’t loneliness — it’s relief.
And at the end of each day, I’d know I chose right: Guppy stretching and settling into her next perch, the porch light catching dust in the evening air, the quiet presence of night creatures moving around me. They don’t disturb me. I don’t disturb them. Just a mutual agreement to exist without fear.
A simple sewing kit, a lifetime of inherited rhythm.
I ended up with my mother’s sewing kit after she crossed over, though “kit” might be too generous a word. It was a simple plastic box the color of old Tupperware, caked in decades of dirt and lint and whatever life had rubbed off on it. I emptied the contents, cleaned it, and put everything back the way I remembered. Funny thing is, I didn’t think I remembered much—until I did. Muscle memory is honest like that.
She used to have me sit beside her while she ran her old Singer like it was a locomotive. Heat built up around that machine. The motor would hum, fabric would spark with static, and the whole room felt charged—like electricity and summer trapped in a small space. My job was simple: keep the needles threaded and the bobbins loaded. I’d keep a couple wound and ready so she’d never have to stop. Every time she hit her groove, something new for my room came out of it. I didn’t buy store-bought sheets until I got married.
I learned to sew, knit, crochet—“girlie things,” the world called them. I say that with a smirk because later, when I had daughters, I taught them the same skills I wasn’t “supposed” to know. Nothing shuts down a stereotype quicker than a man who can backstitch better than you.
After she passed, I didn’t want to use her kit. That box felt like sacred ground. I told myself I’d build my own—fresh basket, fresh tools, fresh start. I even wrote out a supply list. But finding the right basket turned into a ridiculous odyssey. I mentioned the problem to a friend, and she told me, “You know, it’s okay to use your mom’s.”
I refused without thinking.
She didn’t push. She just said softly, “She wouldn’t mind.”
But that was the thing—I minded.
The kit sat there for years. Cleaned, restored, untouched.
The turning point came the day I wandered into a store to look at sewing machines. I wanted something that felt close to her old Singer, though I knew nothing like it existed anymore. The man behind the counter didn’t ask what kind of stitch work I did or what machine I learned on. Didn’t ask about thread tension or feed dogs or bobbin types. He just talked price. Over and over. Like money was the point.
I walked out without saying much. If the first thing you bring to me is cost instead of purpose, we have nothing to talk about.
I went home and opened her kit again. Those old Singer needles were still inside—delicate, outdated, impossible to replace. I picked one up and threaded it without thinking, the way she taught me. When I pricked my finger, I could practically hear her: “Where’s your thimble?” The kind of thing she’d say with half-exasperation, half-love. I stuck my finger in my mouth like a kid, and for the first time since she crossed the veil, I smiled.
She once told me, “I’m teaching you all this stuff because knowing you, you’ll marry a woman who doesn’t know how to do anything.” She said it with affection, the way mothers do when they’ve already figured you out. She was wrong, of course. I didn’t marry a woman like that.
I remember a visit where Mom and my late wife argued—good-natured but firm—about who spoiled me the most. According to them, I was spoiled rotten. According to me, I’m just a man who thinks things ought to be done a certain way.
Hell, right is right, right?
You know, the precision of that first stitch—after all those years—hit me harder than I expected. Something about it was too perfect, too familiar, like my hands remembered a language my mind forgot. And now that I’m older, I find myself full of questions I’d ask my mother and my late wife if the veil worked both ways. It never does. There’s always a million things you want to say to someone once they’re gone.
Looking back, I think teaching me all that sewing and knitting wasn’t just about preparing me for some imaginary woman who couldn’t thread a needle. I think she was keeping my hands busy, slowing down a mind that ran too hot, too fast. At the time, I didn’t believe there was a woman on this planet who couldn’t sew, stitch, or fix something. Then I dated one. Funny thing—I even thought about marrying her. Maybe my mother knew something I didn’t.
There’s something about using my hands that stills me. Crafting, repairing, working with tools—it forces my mind to slow down and focus in a way nothing else does. Writing pulls me outward into worlds that don’t exist yet, chasing the unknown. But when I sew, or mend, or make something real, the world narrows to the size of the task. It started with that old sewing kit on the shelf. But it grew into something much larger. Using her tools isn’t about the past anymore. It’s how I keep my hands steady enough to build the future
Daily writing prompt
What’s the coolest thing you’ve ever found (and kept)?
When I was a kid, brands were a kind of social currency. Clothes weren’t just fabric; they were shorthand for who you were. Madre Khan didn’t have much, but she made sure I never went hungry or without a place to sleep. Back then, I thought the right label could hide the lean years. We lived through the “generic” craze—plain white packaging, bargain prices—and adults preached, “You pay for what you get. Quality costs.” It felt like gospel.
For years I carried those lessons forward. My loyalties were automatic: Dickies for everyday wear, Logitech for office gear, Apple for everything but my phone. I even joked about being a brand whore, because at least I knew why I liked what I liked. My stepmother once shook her head at how casually I spent, but I’d tell her I bought what I needed and rarely worried about price. Quality justified the tab.
Lately, the gospel rings hollow. The “solid” names I grew up trusting don’t always deliver. Prices climb, quality slips, and you can’t put a price on quality now sounds like something printed on the inside of a fortune cookie. More than once, a no-name hard drive or keyboard has outperformed the legacy brand at half the cost.
These days I notice another shift. I own plenty of off-brand gear that works just fine for what I need. Retirement changes the math: I don’t need professional-grade tools anymore, but the ones I have will serve until they die. I used to research only within the circle of names I trusted; now the field is so crowded you watch the distributor more than the logo. Even established vendors let quality control slide, which often leaves me repairing old equipment or building my own replacement. I don’t buy desks or bookshelves anymore—I build them. I’ve started refurbishing old furniture and appliances with lower-grade tools and find the process oddly satisfying.
Just today I paused mid-essay to repair an outdoor extension cord. A simple fix would’ve done the job, but I couldn’t resist the upgrade—added roughly twenty-five feet for good measure. It’s a small thing, but it says a lot: why settle for a patch when you can quietly rewrite the boundaries of your backyard? Somewhere, Madre Khan is smiling at the sight of me splicing wires with the same patient curiosity she once showed when I tore things apart for parts.
I still research before I buy, but loyalty no longer seals the deal. If a nameless drive stores my files without complaint, it wins. If a plain keyboard keeps up with my writing, I don’t care whose badge sits on the box. The brands I associate with now aren’t names—they’re the ones that keep their promises.
Maybe that’s the real lesson: value isn’t in the logo, it’s in the follow-through. Childhood taught me to chase quality. Adulthood taught me to measure it myself. These days my motto is simple—get the most bang for the buck and enjoy the build along the way.
Memoirs of Madness 