ewing Needles When the war started, my father took my mother on a journey, a journey unwanted by either of them – away from home and far from their city. Into exile, next to our little feet and hands, my mother carried her box of sewing needles, and her Butterfly sewing machine made in the USSR. Moving between rented rooms, fabric became a land familiar to her. Opening her box and resting her sewing machine on the floor, she made dresses of different colors and textures. Kabul gave her velvet, in all colors – she chose the colors of liver and ocean, burgundy and royal blue. Pakistan gave her satin, in yellow and orange, she preferred something onion-colored. India gave her cotton, in thick and thin, she selected something in between. One year, she learned to spin coarse wool. And with the money she earned, she bought silk. She waited. I waited. Until the hard skin on the tips of her fingers softened, before she touched the silk. 1