This is where I learned the words treadle and bobble, winder and spool; that feed dog is the name of the teeth below the needle plate. To this day, I flinch a little at the menacing sound of hook and eye, but remember how expertly she attached each pair to the two ends of a collar or a waistband's edge. The young and beautiful daughters of our town came to our gate with their glossy fashion magazines; they pointed out skirts and suits and wedding gowns that she could sew for half the price of a ready-to-wear. I never wore jeans until nearly in college; never wore an Oxford shirt that wasn't bespoke. Her hands no longer fly over a panel of fabric or sketch quick lines on pattern paper across the back of a French curve. Someone has spirited her Singer out of her house, maybe sold it at some quick price not equal to its value. When my fingernail traces a poorly made seam from a factory-made piece of clothing, I think of her bent over a zipper; or feeding rayon or silk under the needle. Out of whole cloth, a parsing of parts. Then their joining into a shape meant to perfectly envelope your own.