My grandmother’s dress hangs in my closet. Dark Green Silk Organza.
An evening gown. A dress from another era. 1935. A relic.
The dress has traveled across steppes, deserts, and an ocean. Through internment and war. In a suitcase.
I wish my grandmother’s story was embroidered on the dress for my fingers to decipher. Instead, I find holes, mold, threads.
The garment remains fragile with time and travel, pregnant with dreams and untold stories. Unraveling.
A legacy of a forgotten time. A legacy of loss and displacement. A remnant.
My grandmother’s dress hangs in my closet (unraveling)...
Ewa Monika Zebrowski