I came across an old letter yesterday, written to my fiance back in college. We wrote a lot of letters during those long summers apart. I was telling him about a day I'd spent with my grandmother, how we'd gone shopping for fabric. She was teaching me how to sew on her 1933 Singer, and she said I had "good hands." Most of the details of the day have left me now, but I remember basking in her love and comfortableness. I didn't know then she would be gone within three years or that I'd still cry for missing her thirty years later.
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