Survivor Poem by Patti Masterman

Dollie was one of eight children
Born in the early part of the twentieth century
I met Dollie only through stories
Dollie as a child had taken sick
Grandmother was sure that the doctor
Had given Dollie some bad medicine
That caused her death.

After Dollie died, she snipped a lock
Of Dollies straight, pale hair, before burial
And tied it with a bit of pink ribbon
The hair stayed in the Bible,
Smelling faintly of powder.
It was dry as the prairie grass
Where Dollie lived and died

I used to wonder if Dollie still lay intact in her grave
With long hair streaming about her
I wondered if she missed the few inches
Held in the pink ribbon; if she knew about that?
The hair was the only thing left of her
Except for the box of homemade dresses
Made of cloth once sewed onto sacks of feed.

Grandma kept the dresses close by, even at seventy
I would always murmur
That maybe they belonged in a museum
But whenever we spoke of Dollie
I just had to see the dresses again.
It was our ceremony, together
One by one, she'd let me look at each dress.

I was astonished that the dresses
Could still reach out from the past-
Proof that Dollie really lived once.
They must have been ironed
Before they were put away
They were still smooth and crisp looking
Viewing the dresses was a sacrament.

It seemed if there was any smidgen left of Dollie
It had to be there in those dresses
Since she wore them every day
Maybe little fragments of her spirit transferred
Into them, when she was very happy or very sad
Perhaps someday some magic
Might free her from the fabric again.

The years went by and too soon
My grandparents died; the dresses disappeared
Probably into the trash can.
They had no value to anyone else; too old, moth-eaten
It seemed a sacrilege: I was the rightful heir
The one appointed, trusted to carry on
The memory of Dollie: But at least I still have the hair.