The Nightie I keep at my Mother’s House

Mother and baby ducks waddle across this cotton nightie, the colour of milk. I sleep in it four, maybe five, times a year. Front-fastening buttons, a neat little row, still work but aren’t needed. Those 4 a.m. feeds were nearly a quarter of a century ago. Somewhere between then and now, I lost the athlete I was. Now I can’t run. My son limps from a soccer scar and frets about receding hair, while Mum is fearful on the stairs and can’t remember the word for mouse. The nightie holds me, soft, un-frayed, in much better nick than the three of us.