I have a set of clothing that I wore as an infant, some delicate hand embroidered cotton dresses and jumpers, plus a hand-sewn, stuffed bunny. They comfort me. They conjure up baby smells, feelings of being protected, of being loved and of being innocent. They have their stories, one sister wore them before me and one sister after. My own children wore them, these threads of pink, yellow, peach, and white.
I pack them up, I unpack them.
I cart them around for years,
Each stain has a story,
a mother feeds her baby,
a father gives her a bottle,
the mother and father gone now,
the aunt who gifted, also gone.
The clothes linger,
in boxes,
in drawers,
and now in photographs, with a touch of gold.
