A black satin dress that was once my grandmother’s hangs in my closet. It’s wrinkled at the edges, but soft and firm, a silver zipper lining the center of its back.
When my grandmother passed, we wrapped her in russet taffeta and put marigolds in her hair.
But I like to picture her life: all brown curls and red lips, a dancer in 1960’s Paris.
I like to picture her in our black satin dress, tangoing through sunsets and waltzing through blue skies.