A silk scarf

 

My grandfather’s evening scarf, given to me in my 20s by my grandmother. 

Worn only with a dinner jacket, and then only when cold enough for an overcoat; knotted once for the walk between car and party, then again in reverse at the end of the night. At most, this happens twice a year. Even by the time my son gets his hands on it, it will have been used for just a matter of hours, despite being 60 years old or more. Its long life has been measured out with short dark walks and steppings-out of cabs.  

But the result is magical: I have appreciated every minute that its heavy ivory silk has touched my skin, and I can say that about no other item of clothing. A five-foot length of fabric, cut, stitched and bought by the dead, whose purpose is only to beautify an evening’s liminal minutes and the otherwise non-spaces between travel and celebration. It is the most un-usual garment that I own.