Grandma Genny’s wedding gown
lies in a crumpled mound
in a brown paper bag
in the back of her closet.
Lucky for me I am there
the day she threatens to throw it out.
(At eighty she began a purge
that shocked us all:
she pawned the family silver,
burned the love letters
penned by Grandpa
from somewhere in France.
When the family farm
at the top of Prune Hill
was paved for subdivisions,
she only said—
“Progress.”)
I step forward to intercede
on behalf of the wedding dress.
“Maybe I’ll wear it,” I say,
knowing I must appeal to economy
for the dress to be saved.
She hands me the bag,
so weathered it is like fabric.
I lift out the crumpled mound
and it unfurls before me
like a selkie skin
that holds memory,
in ecru satin and lace.
I have only seen this dress
in a black-and-white photograph
in which Grandma is dwarfed
by her bouquet of gladiolas
that cross over her body like a sash.
But now I see and touch the lace,
which is woven so tightly
you could catch a fish in it.