The Dress
#7 of Little Nothings
Another in-class writing exercise, based off a single-sentence prompt of the first line. "Carlos discovered ______ under a pile of shoes in the back of his grandmother's closet." Yes, it's sappy, but if there's two things you ought to expect from me, it's sappiness and tragedy. Gods help you when I combine then.
Carlos discovered the dress under a pile of shoes in the back of his grandmother's closet. Long, dark as night, slink, and smooth as silk. It was wrapped in clear plastic that crinkled softly in his hands, and must have been treated well at some point, before it fell to the floor and was lost under the tempest of the crowded space.
It smelled of dust, earthy and rich, as he lifted it up. The light that shone in over his shoulder hit it just so and sequins, previously unseen, sparkled madly in the dim space. It was a curious thing, almost foreign in this graveyard of clothes, where ancient sweaters, pullovers and sundresses came to be eaten by moths. Rising to his feet, he walked over to the bed, resting it upon the floral duvet a moment before sliding it from its covering. The smell assaulted him anew: it was the smell of his granny, but cleaner, and tinged with a very faded, old perfume, a scent of dead roses. The neck was lined with faux fur that wafted in the air, dancing gracefully as if it were still in those clubs that women would wear those kinds of dresses.
All Carlos had known of her was the kind, motherly woman who fed him sugary treats and wholesome meals. The grandmother who he saw every Sunday in church, singing along with the hymnals, fanning herself with a pamphlet underneath her large, straw hat. She had never worn whatever perfume permeated the dress, so infused with the material that it must have been applied almost nightly. She smelled of smoke, of the sun, and of baking, and... well, of old person. She would only wear the long house dresses, the little knit sweaters, all bright colors and quaint. He could still see her, sitting in her oversized, faded green chair, a burning cigarette between her fingers, her eyes bright, even if the teeth behind her constant smile no longer were. She would sit and listen to her old music for hours, the sort that sounded as if it came from a tin can. He held this image in his mind, even as he held the dress in his hands, and suddenly she was wearing the dress, though it hung awkwardly on her.
Once, one Sunday after church, as he stayed with her while his parents went off and did whatever it was that parents did when their kids weren't around, she showed him old pictures, as grandmothers were wont to do.
"This one's me," she said, pointing to an old, black and white Polaroid. "That was back when I was a bit younger than your mother." It was a day at the beach and she was wearing one of those old-fashion swimsuits you just don't see anymore. It was far more modest than what you'd see nowadays, but you could still see the fullness of her figure in the blossom of her youth.
The image of his granny in her chair shifted again, to that woman who stood on the beach, still black and white, and suddenly the dress fit as if it had been made just for her. The fingers that held the cigarette did so delicately now, the filter darkly marked with the lipstick that now painted her lips. The face was smoother, but those eyes were the same, sparkling like the sequins of the dress. The music rose, the old big-band music, and became clearer. A man in a suit walked by and held out his hand, which she took and allowed herself to be led to a dance floor as the band played, chipper as could be. They swayed with the music, he smiled at her, and she smiled back; the music played, and so did they.
The scene faded, and as reality closed in Carlos found his own smile upon his face, gingerly placing the dress back into the plastic. He would give it to his mother, she'd appreciate the reminder, the memories; granny would have liked that.