The attic had long since seen better years, and Julia’s knees no longer allowed her to climb the steps.
‘You’re sure you want this downstairs?’ her grandson asked. He called over his shoulder, shirt sweat stained and shoulder muscles straining beneath the fabric. ‘I ain’t carrying it back up.’
‘I’m sure,’ she told him, watching from the hallway.
She let the men place it, her son and a friend who seemed to always visit when Joshua did.
‘It was my mother’s, and her mother’s before that.’ Six generations it’s clothed.
She patted the old sewing machine.
‘Perhaps seven?’ she smiled.
Photo Prompt © Sandra Crook