by Margaret G. Hanna
Abby stood in her grandmother’s bedroom, hands on her hips. She was not looking forward to disposing of her grandmother’s clothing.
Ick, just old lady’s stuff. Who’ll want it?
She looked in the closet. Five frumpy dresses, a threadbare coat, two mended ancient slips, and two pairs of sensible shoes, the soles worn thin.
She was frugal, guess that came of surviving the Dirty Thirties. Granny was always lecturing me, “When I was your age, I didn’t have two cents to rub together.” “When I was your age . . . blah, blah, blah.”
As she took out the last dress, Abby saw a garment bag at the back of the closet. She laid it on the bed, undid the zipper and gasped. Then she laughed. “Granny, you devil, you.”
She took out a flapper dress made of ashes-of-roses silk georgette over silk crepe. Rhinestones lined the boat neckline. Crystal beads highlighted the huge embroidered roses and the scalloped hem.
Abby held the dress to herself and turned to the dresser mirror. She saw a young lady, her hair bobbed and marcellined, an ostrich feather boa and a long string of pearls around her neck, flirting with a certain young man, tall, handsome, his hair slicked back with macassar oil, a pencil-thin mustache. The two of them, dancing the Charleston into the wee hours of the morning, eyes only for each other.
She smoothed the dress and smiled.
Granny, when you were my age, you were just like me.