There’s a teenaged girl who finds her grandfather’s World War II uniform in a musty trunk of her grandmother’s. It’s olive-green wool, and looks small and formal and stiff. She slips out of her jeans and t shirt; she tries the uniform on. It fits snugly because she’s so tall. and is surprised at how scratchy the wool is and wonders if he had to wear it all the time, even when he leaned deep down in the muddy grass? There are tiny moth-eaten holes in the sleeves, right at the wrists. Time is eating the uniform away and the buttons are cool and smooth. The uniform once smelled like her grandfather maybe but now it smells like the rest of the house, which has the thick, unwavering aroma of Chesterfield cigarettes and fresh tomatoes and basil.
There’s something about the warmth of the uniform, and how gold buttons are against the wool. The jacket is snug and cuts into her waist. The girl feels sexy and strong. She wants to put on some Revlon Love that Red lipstick and Victory roll her hair. She wants to forget that the world outside has moved on away from the world that existed when her grandfather went to war.