DAY 72: Memory of a Grandmother

One of the rituals practiced in my home, is that of a “wardrobe detox.”  My wife is often on some charity mission, eager to donate unwanted clothing from our overcrowded wardrobes.

I have kindly requested that my wife abstain from my cupboard, as my unpredictable body often sways backwards and forwards on the “thin-fat” weightometer; maintaining a ‘large’ wardrobe with varying sizes provides the perfect safety net for my metamorphosing figure, all year round.

After an exasperating morning, we managed to accumulate three bags of clothing – hoping to satisfy the needs of those unfortunate individuals, trapped in the labyrinth of economic austerity. 

During our charitable exercise, my wife and I came across a tightly-sealed package, buried at the bottom of her dowry chest.  We both looked at each other, exchanging mutual glances of contentment as we began to unravel its contents.

Behind the copious layers of cotton sheets, my wife’s bridal gown appeared sparkling with thousands of hand-sewn glass crystals, the lightest and most diaphanous of silks, a bodice of voile Swiss lace, and a ball gown of luxurious tulle.

It was sixteen years since we admired it last; packed tightly by the blessed hands of my grandmother, a few days after our wedding in 1997. 

“Keep the gown tightly wrapped in a cotton sheet,” she advised. “That way, the colour will never change, and it will remain preserved for ages.”

My late grandmother’s words were true to their meaning; the immaculate gown reflected beauty, originality, purity and creativity – conjuring up the same emotions from our glorious wedding day.

My grandmother committed herself to a time-honoured tradition: all the bridal gowns in the family had to be created by her unique hands.  No matter the style or preference, my grandmother would oblige willingly by surrendering months of her time to produce an original haute couture creation. 

As we continued to observe the detail on the gown, my wife and I remained speechless, identifying the time consuming process of thousands of glass beads, hand-sewn into the intricate lace.

I recalled pressurising my grandmother into producing the longest train – sketching my vision on a scrap piece of paper.  Eager to please, her smile was a symbol of acknowledgement, and no matter how difficult the task, she would insist on transforming any dream into a reality.

My grandmother’s showstopper had left everyone in awe. 

After sixteen years, my grandmother’s memory was brought to life through her timeless creation.  Every part of my wife’s magnificent bridal gown was hand touched by my late grandmother’s angelic hands.  Her passion and love for both of us was evident through a comment she once made:

“Every bead sewn on the dress is a blessing from my heart.”

I lost my grandmother to cancer in 2003.  After ten years, her legacy is kept alive through her most celebrated creation.  I remain forever indebted for all those blessings, and for leaving a part of her time-honoured tradition behind – a gift I can pass onto my son to remind him of his fabulous great-grandmother.

Weight for me tomorrow. Paul

Paul Lambis is the author of “Where is Home?” – A journey of hilarious contrasts. 
For more information on Paul Lambis, and to order his book online,
visit www.paul-lambis.com