image by Huzzah Vintage
The smell of moth balls makes me think of Nana. I loved exploring her teenage wardrobe, even though I had to hold my nose. I cried when Dad told me she’d thrown it all away because it’d confused her.
I freeze. Am I seeing things? This has to be Nana’s dress. I check for the hole she’d burnt into it with a cigarette. There. Like mad, I burrow through the 1950s section. But it’s the only piece of Nana’s.
I wear it for dinner. My parents exchange a look. They’ve recognised it, too.
’So, who really gave Nana’s clothes away?’