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|
|Date:||Jun 22, 2008|
|Next Article:||At Nineteen on L'Isle D'Oleron with the Vincents.|