Anya followed the whirring sound of her mother’s sewing machine through the darkened living room of her childhood home, down the hall and to the sewing room. The sewing room, formerly Anya’s bedroom, was where her mother could most often be found, bent over the Singer, stitching together brightly colored suedes, velvets and sometimes even furs. Today, like most other days, an array of traditional Inuit anoraks and parkas hung across the length of the curtain rod. Some were complete, ready to be shipped off to the native arts cooperative gallery in Anchorage, where her mother’s work was sold. Others still needed finishing touches here and there. But they were all beautiful, even in their various stages of completion. Beautiful and one of a kind. “Hello, sweetheart.” Her mother glanced up from the machine but kept feeding fabric toward the needle. “Give me just a minute. I’m almost finished with this sleeve.” “Sure.”
