Michael Minassian
The Sweater
Today, I notice
a thread unraveling
on the sleeve of a shirt.
I think of my grandmother
and her sewing box
crammed with needles and thread.
A proud, lifelong member
of the International Lady
Garment Workers Union
she kept her membership
card with her citizenship
papers and the photo
of my grandfather
in his hand sewn shirt
next to her bed.
Yet I knew she worked
in harsh conditions
at a time when clothing
was made in the USA,
and immigrant women
worked long hours
in poorly lit factories
with no ventilation.
America had its own
sweatshops, children
worked in warehouses
instead of going to school.
A survivor of the Genocide,
she walked through the desert
from Armenia to Lebanon in 1915
before coming to America.
At her funeral, I sat
holding her favorite sweater,
a worn wool cardigan
I brought home
from the hospital,
the top two buttons
missing, as absent
as her voice.