on chiffon

Have I told you this story?
My grandmother, my mother and me: the same dress, decades in a row.

I remembered it today, that dress.
I slipped into the closet to finger the ivory embroidery.
To breathe in the lingering smell of lilacs and moth balls. 

For the sun seems to be hiding again, as if it were ashamed of the cold that has fallen upon us once more. And I needed a tangible memory of spring.
To feel the hope in the weight of the vintage chiffon.


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