I was browsing about at a thrift a few days ago, a few days after the last journal I wrote. I found this nice antique styled Singer sewing machine that was dated about 1951. It was styled after the older ones from the late 19th century to the early 20th. It's little table it was built into had about four little drawers.
Inside the drawers I was surprised to find many old buttons, some even in new packaging, never opened. The date I saw on one of the packages I found was 1969. There were a few little things unrelated to sewing too, like a little blank letter stamped with Postage 6¢. Even a little transparent American Flag sticker for a window in there too.
There was also a compartment that stored extra parts for the sewing machine. I assumed replacement parts, some screws, and a very old pair of cast iron fabric scissors. I found myself looking through the various things, and small personal effects. The sewing machine as a whole appeared to be frozen in time, a still life.
As if one day the person who used it got up and left it. Wholly untouched, even when donated and put onto the floor of the thrift ready for sale. And there I was looking through it. Among more items was a little picture in grayscale. It was of a baby boy or girl by a sofa, on the back of the photograph was written "11 months" in fading ink.
Priceless little pieces of someone else's life and their work.