It dangles from a hanger
on my closet door,
rotting at every seam and snap.
The bodice puckers in some places
(someone with too wide a waist
may have borrowed it
to impress her friends)
and I’ve accidentally torn
the stiff net of the crinoline.
It must have been stunning.
<i>Senior Prom, 1953.
She sweeps in,
her eyelashes bowing
like great, black fans.
And the sight of her dress
makes all the other girls
sick to their stomachs
with envy.</i>
It surely was.
Gingerly placing my hands on the dress,
I pause for a moment
and wonder about who it belonged to--
I even imagine lifting the brittle tulle
and finding her name scrawled in ballpoint pen:
“Debra-Sue” maybe,
or “Mary-Jo.”
It radiates a coolness,
in the way some fabrics do.
<i>“You look swell, Leslie.”
“Thank you, Teddy.”
“Would you like to dance?”
“I would.”
And she glides across the gym floor,
her satin-slippered feet barely visible
beneath the soft, yellow gossamer
of the skirt.</i>
Just beautiful.
But now,
only the skeleton of the dress remains,
hanging wearily from my closet door.
There are tiny blood spots on the inner skirt
(perhaps she stubbed her toe
while she was dancing),
and it smells sickeningly sweet:
of perfume,
perspiration
and mildew.
The “U”-shaped rips in the over-skirt
shiver like yellow flies’ wings
when I turn on the ceiling fan.
Such a shame.
<i>“Oh, Mama, I don’t even want
to take it off,” she laughs.
“Go get dressed for bed, Leslie.”
And she dashes up the stairs,
glowing so bright
you would think she’s the sun herself.
Mother doesn’t notice the tiny, rhinestone ring
on Leslie’s middle finger.</i>
It must have been breathtaking.
I hold it against my body
and gaze absently into the mirror.
Head to one side…
Head to the other…
And it still is.
It seems so beautiful.
It’s indescribable.
Reason for writing:
<br>Well, at first, I didn't think I'd write the entire story behind "the yellow dress" because it's so long. But, what the heck? If you don't want to read it, you don't have to. :p Here goes.
<br><br>
A couple years ago, I was in the play "Grease." All us girls were being fitted for a prom dress for the big dance scene, and unfortunately, I wasn't having much luck -- everything was too big, or not the right time period. But then, the costumer gave me the infamous YELLOW DRESS. And it was perfect; it was beautiful; I was in love!
<br><br>
Well, I was all set to sign it out, when the costumer told me I couldn't use it because it was torn; it was an original. "What?! Then why'd you let me try the frickin' dress on??" I thought. But she wouldn't argue. I wasn't allowed to use the dress.
<br><br>
So, three years passed, and I went back to the costume shop to find something for Halloween. I wanted to be a dead prom queen -- all prettied up with a bloody head or something -- and I knew I could find something there. Well, I started talking to the store-owner, and as luck would have it, she remembered me (as the girl who whined about her costume, heh). And then, just out of curiousity, I asked her if she still had the YELLOW DRESS. She did! (whoo-hoo!) And when she told me that it probably wouldn't work unless I was going to be a DEAD 50s GIRL (Yes! Yes! That's what I was planning on!), I knew there were higher powers at work. I bought the dress for $29.99.
<br><br>
So, basically, I had obsessed over this dress for 3 years, and it was finally mine. I had even tried to draft my own pattern and reproduce it! (I'm not <i>that</i> good a costumer. Didn't turn out too good.) There's also a little subplot about how she had sold the dress to some woman a few years ago -- along with a bunch of other old costumes -- but at the last minute, took that one back. Lucky for me! It was meant to be.
<br><br>
So, at this point, I doubt I'm making much sense. (It's not easy to cram
Birth sign: Virgo
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