It was like Christmas in July. My heart foundered
on the festive picnic of a gingham dress
with puffy sleeves and ruffles framing a scoop neck.
It made me feel so grown-up as I whirled and twirled
like a dust devil dancing up a storm in the driveway.
I wore a funnel of pleasure floating off into the blue sky.
I wore it to church. I wore it to school, it made me feel
like a princess with its full skirts rustling in the breeze.
I vaguely knew the girl from catechism, she was older,
she didn’t go to our church or to our school.
But it was a tight-knit farming community
so I was careful not to wear it to the other church
where her family were parishioners. I was in 5th grade,
it was a time of transitions. At our annual church bazaar,
as my grandmother culled clothes on the rummage table,
there she was, whispering to the others, pointing a finger
at her old dress. She made me feel so ashamed
for wearing hand-me-downs. Thing is, there was
no shame attached to old clothes—until she outed me
and I put that dress away, never to wear it again.
6/28/23 Write On! Prompt. Terri Glass
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