The Shirt Waiting In The Closet
THE purple and white silk shirt in a plastic bag in my closet is waiting in perpetual uncertainty to be worn. I bet I would have worn it with my pink platform shoes on December 24, 1979 when I squeezed through the bars of my bedroom window and jumped and landed on the flower bed.
SAFI's welcoming tongue on my bare ankles gave me the go-ahead and her eyes shone with a glint of the moon as I approached the gate and the headlamps of the car waiting to steal me away to a birthday party in town, forbidden by Baba.
BUT alas, the purple and white silk shirt compressed in a storage bag is weary of my happily ever after, it begs me to unfold it, it promises not to disappoint the encroaching years and my big boobs; it promises to steady my grip as I approach the doorway to the memories that form me.