I'm sixty-seven years old and still crawl through attics for a living, installing air conditioning for folks who can afford to be cool.
The sewing machine sits in the corner of the living room. Lottie's treadle Singer, 1947.
No one in the family wants it. Too heavy, too ugly, too much memory. But no one will discard it either, because that would be discarding her.
Lily came home at five in the morning, eyes red from the bus ride. She'd been to see her mother at the prison. Jetlag from a place you can never fully leave.
She pinned her spelling-bee ribbon to the sewing machine's cover. Second place in the county. She's proud, but she's prouder of the machine. 'Grandma's magic,' she calls it.
She's never met her grandmother, but she runs her hand along the wood like she's touching skin. I watched her fall asleep on the couch, her hand still resting on the metal wheel.
That machine hasn't moved in thirty years. But last night, I swear I heard it hum.