207/365: 1957

Uncle Arthur's Bedtime Stories

In a bedroom at my grandmother's house,
a room that had been my mother's,
I pretended it was 1957.
Late at night, when the house was quiet,
I brushed my hair with her old silver brush and mirror,
and I looked out to watch the glittery snow
sparkle against lights all over town,
and I imagined boys she might have liked
in v-neck sweaters and rolled jeans,
and I folded clothes to put them in drawers,
neatly with the creases in the pants just right,
and then I opened up an Uncle Arthur book
and placed it next to my pillow
so I could fall asleep smelling what she smelled,
the glossy paper and ink and binding glue,
sweet and dry,
before I was alive.

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