Haunted by artifacts of personal history
Not the Retiring Type Not long after the moving van deposited the bed and boxes in the condominium that has become our new home I woke one morning with a baby dress on my mind. The dusty rose baby dress that my grandmother crocheted for me. The baby dress I put in a donation box as we prepared for this move. A decade ago I plucked the dress from a trunk of musty clothing when clearing my mother’s home a final time. I tucked it into a plastic storage bin in an upstairs closet