I own a relic.
A nightgown given me by my mother.
Likely fifty years ago.
Worn in warm weather.
Home, other places around the globe.
About to be packed for the next trip.
When I note holes in the fabric.
Where the cotton wears thin.
From use, washing.
Maybe from drying in a machine.
Rather than on a line.
Would it have lasted longer?
Had I taken better care of it?
Did I cause the garment to tatter?
Examining it closer.
In a way I had not before.
The smocked top.
Appliquéd roses.
Delicate short sleeves.
Lace and ruffles around the bottom.
Roses and bird pattern.
Perhaps hummingbirds.
Though hard to make out now.
For the fading.
I touch the material with my hand.
Feeling my mother’s care in its selection.
Imaging her choosing it for me.
Her careful inspection.
Maybe roses for my middle name.
Birds, for guidance.
For certain, an offering of love.
Why had I not recognized its essence?
Why treasure it now?
When too frayed to wear?
Too delicate?
Too late?
A mystery I can’t unfold.
Epiphany at demise.
Waiting o’er the years for me
to see with older eyes.
Lynn Benjamin
August 4, 2023
