Monday, July 16, 2007
Little Girls and Wedding Veils
With no train to ride, no downtown to wander, being stuck in the apartment for a day or two packing up to move the cases before I start my tour of the UPside of the city, I plan on waxing on about whatever I please, and digging up and reworking old shi..stuff to ramble on about.
Be patient. I'm jobless and homeless. If you see me on the 4/6, don't make me have to sing before you give me a dime in my cup, okay?
As the always droll LisaB pointed out, the Mother of the Bride dress tends to make one look like Mamie Eisenhower... HRH, however, is in that wonderful position of being...
Notice that I actually opened up the option of using colour and used it for once on my journal. This is the same colour her 47 bridesmaids will be wearing as they move down the aisle in August, to whatever music it is she's chosen.
Last February, I was back in the Land of Utes, and she and I went shopping. We went shopping for The Dress. You know, the One.
"Mom, what about this one?"
I had looked up over from the text I was writing, over the rims of my reading glasses... and my heart stopped.
It is the day every little girl plays with... bath towel pinned to her hair, red lipstick on, marching in a line. The day every mother thinks about, when she knows it's going to be a girl. The date is picked, colours chosen... perhaps... it's the day to start looking at dresses. The fluff of white/cream/ivory/beige she will wear, queen of the day, walking down the aisle on the arm of her father, THE dress of her life.
I looked up from the text I had been writing, over the rims of my reading glasses...and my heart stopped at the baby I carried, who came five weeks early, born purple black, silent, pneumonia almost instantly, who stopped breathing at two weeks, held in my arms as I drove like a madwoman through town, shaking her every time she quit, begging God... my heart stopped at the little girl who fell when trying to walk, hitting the edge of a table, creating a perfect dimple... at the lanky child, with all the good genes, long legs like mine, long arms, long torso, a neck reminiscent of Audry Hepburn, slim, curvy... my heart stops as her wide mouth with it's full lips that tip up on the edge, shy smile lighting her black eyes. Her ivory skin glows over high cheekbones, firm chin, smooth jawbone... chestnut hair sweeping over her shoulders as she steps forward, the dress moving with her.
She is flawless.
People turn, watch her walk over... the dress skimming her tiny waist, moving over her hips to a train... like her, it's simple, classic, just a smidgen of sass to sparkle though in a serious time. She reaches up with her hands, those beautiful long fingered hands that are grace in motion when she works to translate speech to sign, and pulls her hair into an impromptu bun. A single long veil is attached to her hair... she turns slowly again.
She has sloe eyes under straight brows. Her hands spread the dress down in the front... holding it slightly away from her... she chews her lower lip, a habit I have.
I couldn't speak that day, watching her.
She is my soul. My unplanned, precious, beloved, laughs like me, can't dance, can't sing, watch films with, still crawls into bed with me and sleeps sometimes, play gin with, proved you can have a daughter and have things be GOOD... she is my all in so many ways.
"Mom? Momma? "
She went and tried on another dress... I cried to know she'll never be just mine again. I cried because she is so beautiful it hurts to look at her. I cried because her spirit is as wonderful as her face.
I cried because I had no one to turn to and share. I have no sister. My mother and I do not speak. I picked up my phone, and sent a text to the one person I tell all to, that I give my secrets to, that I trust the most in the world... one that is also a good parent, who recognises my feelings doing this alone, and will knew how deep my emotions run... I wrote it out and hit send. I didn't worry about an answer, it's was the knowledge there is someone who will read it with care and who will understand... that was enough.
"Okay, what do you think of this one?"
Easy answer, it sucked...
"Try the next one without wearing your white socks."
I hear her laugh as I saw the tip of the veil go around the corner towards the dressing room.
The day approaches, she ended up buying a dress I've not seen yet. I'm taking the upbeat side that my no longer having a job here lets me leave earlier than I'd planned, and I can be there to help out with more of the wedding, we'll do the shower thing, and I'll drive around with her, and, yes, I'll more than likely look like Mamie Eisenhower with an attitude.
Her brothers, sans one will be there, her sister and the newest addition to the family, along with her dad.... he's walking her down the aisle to where I stand and there she wants me to take over. I'll take her hand, and walk her to her beloved.
I'm put her veil back, I'll lean over, right before I put her hand in his, and I say our little poem in her ear. That's what she thinks. I may sing softly, "I love you, a bushel and a peck"... we have a whole stupid routine we used to do.
Then, she passes out of my world into his.
In that dress, in that smile, with her whole life ahead of her.
Yeah, I love her, a bushel and a peck. More than she knows....
Posted by quin browne at 11:38 AM