Dear Singer 237,
You dear old sod, you are so full of character. Nothing fancy, and reliable as the ticking clock. Together we’ve made my most cherished creations, and I get a warm fuzzy feeling when I smell your dusty machinery.
Found by the side of the road, a cast-off. Clogged with smoke and sweat, you were lovingly cleaned and mended by my family, and gifted to me. And what a gift. How many of your friends will mend holes in your socks?
You know I’ve never been bothered by your lack of fancy stitches, nor by your finicky bobbin winder or your gradually disintegrating belt. Give you a shiny new needle and you’d sew up a storm.
But lately, you’ve been sounding a little wheezy in the chest, and your foot-peddle crackles in the most disturbing way. And we both know I can’t drop your feed-dogs…
So yesterday, I folded you back under your table, wound up your cord, and replaced you with a newer model.
I know you are hurting at my slight. I am hurting too love, I miss your scent and mechanical noises, your strong metal exterior. But we both need to move on. You need rest. I need free-motion quilting.