Hair curls on the edge of a collar folded like the steam from her morning coffee.
I never knew what material her dressing gown was made of, something caught between terry cloth and velvet, zipper drawn up tight against the sight of her thin nightdress below.
I never saw her without it on, as though it was the equivalent of nudity, to be unadorned by quilted burgundy. Dressed enough to open curtains and greet the day, but breakfast required her to be fully dressed.
My mother rarely wore a dressing gown, soft curves contoured by cotton, her breasts heavy round and reminiscent of a legacy she shared with her first born, though not with me. Her casual night wear suggested a welcoming closeness.
I never snuggled in grandma’s bed if she was there too. But there was always room between mum and her book.
With grandma, it was music, lullabies sung from the edge of the bed, pushing us into a dream country she dared not visit.
But mum carried us there, in the pages of stories that fell from her lips, tucked within the kiss she pressed with a featherlight love, on the foreheads of her near sleeping babes.