Cotillion Failure

The sand remains in my pockets weeks after I collected that pink quartz, grains wedge under my nails, shards burrowing as if they could find an ocean in there. Cleaning it all out, I find a packet in my purse from last week’s half-price sushi, soy sauce dark as ink. It’ll live in the drawer with the others until I change apartments. You can’t catch fireflies or pick blackberries in white gloves so I taught my dog to bury my pair in the backyard. I learned to curse, read upside down, sew enough to patch and hide the stains on all my shirts. I can roll a condom but lack the patience and polite smile of a young lady, my eyebrows give me away. My mom’s attention to counted cross stitch wasn’t passed down by chromosome, I laugh like her but louder. My hips lead when I dance, my eyes closed and drowning. I never managed to finish a Jane Austen novel, but I pay attention to the fleur-de-lis wallpaper pattern, thrill to see someone waiting on a stump, dress still wet from the lake, coming home to mother.

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1 Comment

  1. just read this email, been sick and have not been to library. interesting the way you access your thoughts and are able to externalize them with pen and paper(or typed into a computer). HAPPY 25th BIRTHDAY. Another b-day and another pending snowstorm. The world is fortunate to have people like you inhabiting it. I am forever awed by your choices and the way you always carry yourself. I plan to check up on gramps next month myself and of course I can’t wait to see you. miss and love you dearly, dad

    ________________________________

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