My Grandfather’s Dress

A black taffeta hung in his closet,

standing amidst baseball hats and suits.

The lace pressed against barn-dirt sweaters

pleading to be worn.

I tried it on and displayed my vintage self.

I was a Gram mannequin.

Hair was slightly different but my face was like her.

He saw her

staring out

and the dress wasn’t old for him.

He saw their first date.

The camera capturing them on the doorstep.

His hand on her back as they danced

She exploded

into his memory.

‘You look nice,’ he said

and finished his ice cream.

-To my Pipop