By James Lester
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My grandmother’s pink nightgown.
Must have been made of dust.
Little bunnies in the factory, sewing together mites.
It looks like it started being.
made on the day she was conceived.
A gown as old and dignified as she.
Actually, let’s not speak lies about the dead.
She was miserable.
Not just her health. Her whole mentality.
On the farm, if she ever had a dress.
In all its glory. Still. Covered with some dirt.
Milking cows
Killing chickens
Riding a tractor in her gown.
Her dress was never clean.
My grandmother’s pink nightgown.
That’s what I remember.
Her shuffling around the house.
Cigarette clenched between her talons.
Muttering at my grandpa…
My grandmother’s pink nightgown.
My grandmother’s mother’s pink nightgown.
My mother remembers her grandmother's pink nightgown.
She was old and bitter. Filled
with pompous pride.
A life of dreams that only stayed as clouds.
My grandma wore pants for most of her career.
She was a secretary at a dentist’s office.
I remember she would work while the rest of the office was on vacation.
She would bring me to spend the day with her.
Letting me click the buttons for the patient rooms.
I taught her how to play solitaire on her work computer.
My grandmother’s pink nightgown.
As she lays dying in the bed.
A sense of comfort as we see her off to sleep.
As I watch her gown vanish into the night.
A strange sense of obligation as we put that
pink night gown into a black body bag.
Be strong.
Be like grandma.
I wear my grandmother’s pink nightgown,
with pompous pride.
I could be half as
spiteful, bitter, resentful
petty, jealous, judgmental, loving, caring, nosey.
Knows what’s right for everyone.
Somebody who genuinely pissed me off, with her inability to listen.
or change her mind. but somehow still open minded.
Just straight up unpleasant.
Somehow really caring. Planned every holiday.
Woke up to cook Thanksgiving dinner at 4am.
Spent a month buying Christmas presents for everybody.
Baked Christmas cookies for weeks at the same time.
No, shit she was bitter.
She spent so much time doing everything for every family member.
She never really did anything for her.
Bail me out of jail at 3am.
Bail my cousin out with property taxes.
Bail my mom out of alcohol addiction.
Those are just the easy things to list.
So, I imagine after a life of extremely laborious work on the farm.
Then being the bread winner in a family with five girls.
Then dealing with those five daughters,
her lazy fucking grandchildren, and one set of great grand kids.
Maybe in her old age she was bitter.
Maybe the love for her husband had faded
and she was stuck ‘til death.
Because she let him leech off her for,
“Oh, I don’t know, my entire lifetime.”
So, then maybe when I’m talking to her.
She’s heard enough.
Who am I to question her beliefs?
You don’t want to celebrate Christmas! FINE!
I’m not doing this for me.
I hope you have happy memories.
Unlike the ones I had when I was living on the farm.
In that dirty dress, milking cows before school.
I did all this for you,
you unappreciative little bastard.
My grandmother’s pink nightgown.
I took her to her 60th class reunion towards the end.
I’m lucky to have that memory.
About the Author
James Lester is an adjunct instructor and student at Illinois Central College. He teaches mathematics and obsessively listens to Hip-Hop. He took a creative writing class to learn how to write poetry.