She was a seamstress for forty years. If you looked at her hands, you could see it — the calluses at the fingertips, the small scars from pins and needles, the way her fingers moved even when she was watching television, as if they were still working something.
She came from the Philippines in 1971 with two suitcases and a skill. The skill was the important one. She found a factory in Los Angeles, then a shop, then she saved enough to have her own small operation out of the apartment.
She made prom dresses and wedding dresses and quinceañera dresses and alterations for a dry-cleaning shop. She made the dress I wore when I graduated from college. She made my wedding dress.
She is eighty-one now and her hands shake with Parkinson's. She cannot sew anymore. When I visit, she sometimes picks up fabric and holds it, running her thumb across the weave. Her hands still know what to do; they just can't do it anymore.
I have been thinking lately about what it means to carry a skill in your body for forty years, and then have the body change around it while the knowledge stays.