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Wearing My Mother's Dresses.

Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee Calls back the lovely April of her prime.

--"Sonnet 3," William Shakespeare

 At your funeral, I wore the chocolate cocktail dress tied at
the waist with the rolled cord; sister chose one of your beaded
sweaters; Auntie Claire, the navy suit
 a tribute to your walk-in closet, how you tailored your girls in
yellow-checked gingham sprung wide with crinolines, velvet smocks with
white collars, elbow-length gloves, sashed blue dancing frocks.
Your red ballroom gown, heavy silk with beaded bodice, I'll sheath
in cleaner's plastic, hold on to.
I fit the mocha lace A-line, the one scalloped at hem, cuffs and
collarbone,
I'll throw parties just to wear it.
Remember the green and white floral number, how its wide skirt
taffeta-shushed as you passed me getting ready to go out? I'd
follow you bury my jammy face in its glossy folds
and when you were gone, I'd sneak into your cupboard
clomp in your pink velveteen heels, silver brocade dress, swing a stole
around my shoulders.
In your full-length glass, watch myself twirl: embroidered stars, black
shot silk. 
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Author:Kerkham, Cynthia Woodman
Publication:Antigonish Review
Article Type:Poem
Date:Jun 22, 2008
Words:234
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