For the last several years of her life, my grandmother was home-bound. Every time we visited her, she was wearing a nightgown. She was small, with her thin, wispy, permed white hair and large-framed glasses, and her nightgowns seemed to swallow her. They were so grandmotherly--long and loose dresses of the softest material, some frill or embroidery around the edges, garnished with small buttons. It seemed so fitting, so classic, that my grandmother wore these nightgowns.
When she passed away in March, my grandfather gave her pajamas to the granddaughters who wanted them. I took one of my grandmother's nightgowns. I wore it to bed for the first time a few nights ago. The nightgown was permeated with her smell. I wanted to take it back off and put it back in the drawer so I could preserve the smell and thereby the memories associated with this nightgown.
But I left it on, and in the morning the smell merely lingered. It was a bittersweet moment as I realized that not all things have to fade away.
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