My Mother's Scissors

The sound of the scissors is comforting as my six year old self sits in a pile of scraps creating a tracksuit from bits and pieces. I am being very careful.

The man who comes to sharpen the cutter’s tools at my mother’s work also sharpened the ladies’ scissors yesterday. They are extra sharp today.

When I finish cutting, I immediately return the scissors to my mother’s orange work basket. Without them, she cannot work tomorrow and will be sent home.

I return to my pile of scraps and begin the slow process of stitching the tracksuit together with a small needle and spool of thread. My stitches are not very neat nor even, but they are mine and they will be strong enough.

I know my teddy will not mind how they look, he just needs to be warm for winter.

I remember once, I used my mother’s precious scissors and was so excited about what I made that I ran to show her, leaving the scissors behind the curtains, where I had been tucked away working in my own safe world. She did not notice they were not in her basket when she left for work early the next morning. I never forgot again. Scissors are important.

For me, as I grew older, those scissors paid for my education so I could make a life that my mother had only dreamed of.

I loved my childhood.

It was a time before labels.

A time before there were words for coercion, gaslighting and consent.

I do remember being small and keeping out of the way a lot, but mostly I remember the handfuls of fabric scraps my mother would bring home, carefully collected from the cutting floor at the factory where she worked and lovingly delivered in her large hands.

I could make as many things as I could imagine. And I did.

Reflecting through adult eyes, I can see there was so much wrong with our household but my mother made so much more right. Creating is in my blood and the memory of her scissors is forever imprinted on my heart.

My own life has had many twists and turns and nooks and crannies. I picked the same type of person as my father several times over, never seeming to learn. All my girls were born from love, in the best of times. But even though they are still little, what I ended with was less than love.

When Covid came, it was the push I needed to change our stars. With much patience and a whole lot of careful, my girls and I now live by ourselves.

I built this sewing room for them and for me, a place I hold just for us. I built this room where there was just dust and rubbish and broken things. Using my own hands, I painted and wallpapered and learnt to use a drill, a hacksaw and what all those different types of screws are for. I invested part of me in here and I learnt to be strong again. I wonder if my girls look at my hands and see they are big and full of love.

I make sure there are always handfuls of precious fabric scraps to fill my girls’ yearnings to create, for it is in their blood too.

The clock on the wall has no hands, as time is not important in this room. This is where I sew and stitch, build and make magic. This place, my girls, my craft, my life, they all make me very happy and I know, with the same certainty that my six year old self knew her teddy would love his tracksuit, that I am enough.

And I always, always have lots of pairs of scissors. Scissors are important.