Friday Figment: THIMBLE THERAPY

I have to get away from the smell of Lima beans steaming in my grandma’s kitchen, so I creak down the hall and slump into her over-sized recliner in the living room. I pull the chain on the table lamp, so dusty light rests over the doily pretending to add frill on the worn block of a side table. 

Between the Reader’s Digests and crossword books, a metal thimble stands alone, as if with a purpose that only it is aware of. I slip the little metal cup on and off my thumb, try tapping on the table, but I can only get in two rapid knocks before it tumbles off again. 

What’s the purpose of this dimpled finger armor, anyway? A tiny memento from a time when no home was without a thimble in their cluttered basket of sewing stuff. 

I barely remember the last time I heard the murmur of a sewing machine, the rumble of the kitchen table as it wobbled under the piston-pumping of the needle’s force, the jangle of Grandma’s necklace holding her reading glasses as she adjusted them closer to peer closer at the stitches running closer across her fabric, visible thanks to that headlight provided by all those sewing contraptions. The stiff coral dress she’s wearing probably passed across that machine before she wore it.

The steam’s damp taste makes its way into the room, there’s no escaping it. I plunk the tiny relic on the doily’s lace, my interest officially worn, and I head outside to watch the sunset. 

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Thimble Photo: By Contains Mild Peril (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons