novembre ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- before mom sets giggling and puttering around under the guise of "cleaning." mom found a green taffeta dress my grandmother made for me when i was 10 and was forced to go to cotillion. i tried it on and it was too big -- and too short. looked great with my cowboy boots though. those huge puffed sleeves. i waltzed around the dog. next came the eggshell satin wedding dress with a coffee stain across a gathered sleeve. the dress i marveled at in so many pictures but had never felt between my fingers before. wouldn't zip up over my ribcage. mom was tiny then, smaller than me at ten years old. "i was so small, and it wasn't an accident." "the apple diet?" i asked, and we both nodded. i watched her watch me, hem gathered in my fists, through the mirror's reflection: i wondered if she was thinking about her wedding day, or mine. what came before and what seems to never come in her mind. which is more mythical? thirty-some years ago or a single daughter you want so badly to feel loved the way you think she deserves? i couldn't tell which gave her pause. maybe both, a mixture of the two, swirling around in our genes. people say i look so much like she did when she was my age. i'd show them photographs and they'd start. eyes raised. 3:08 pm - 11.27.04 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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