As I turn the starched stiff pages of the sepia toned images of the frozen moments of my infant days, my vision becomes blurred. I gently dab my eyes with Kleenex. Advancing age is another issue.
I caress the already worn out images with my trembling hands. I must have done this exercise a million times before. I can still feel the soft cotton fabric of my baby frock with dainty lace. My grandmother had hand-stitched it for me, her first born grand-daughter.
Those were the days of custom made clothes with the labour of love. Mass factory produced goods hadn't made inroads.
I pushed the bulky photo-album towards the other edge of the table.
The neatly folded pile of tiny frocks and bloomers reposed in the mahogany cabinet. Shrinking mothballs rested besides them.Gingerly picking them, I lay them on the table and a quick glance at the images in the album. Time stood still. It seemed just a day before that I had adorned them and the smell of the newly sewed clothes permeated my nostrils.
Smile stretched on my wrinkled face as I placed another set of baby clothes on the table besides the old set of clothes. Generations separated them but love and affection reigned as the common factor.These branded factory made clothes are personally chosen by me. Shopping on-line is a new feature added to my skills.
The old faded pile would be passed on as heirloom to the newest addition of my family.
NAY NAY.... , my values and blessings would be her legacy.
The old worn-out clothes will go with me: to the grave.