My Grandmother was a Dressmaker

She always smelt good,

My grandmother.

Always laughed wholeheartedly,

There was never another

Woman of substance

In my early life

To lift up spirits

Whenever there was strife.

My Grandmother was a dressmaker

But she was more than that to me

She’d elegantly smoke her cigarette

Completing a crossword on her knee

Her waxy skin, so warm and fragile

Speckled with scratches, from roses,

Tended to in her garden

I remember rubbing noses.

Playing tootsies under feathered quilts

Would send me into giggles,

Ticking me with her mouse book mark

Gave my little body the wriggles!

So dear Gram, know whenever I open the wardrobe door

And consider what to wear.

You are in my heart and memories

I know you’re always there.