The Dress

IRENE MEKLIN

She twirls around in front of the mirror, laughing as the colors blend into a colorful blur. Her hair is cut short, too short to move when she twirls, but in her mind’s eye it is a long silky wave that swings around with every step she takes. She stops twirling for a moment and gazes at herself in the mirror, feeling the happiest she’s felt in a long time. She goes over to her mother’s nightstand and opens it, gazing in wonder at the treasure inside: makeup. She gently tugs a tube of scarlet red lipstick out of the drawer, making sure to make no sound. She wonders how she’d look with it on, and struts over to the mirror, lipstick clutched in her chubby fingers. She unscrews the cap and paints some of it onto her lips, her smile so wide that the lipstick stains her teeth red. She wonders if she should go try some mascara when her mother storms in, in all her glory, and begins to yell.

“What are you doing here?” She screams at the cowering girl. “And what is it that you have on—my dress? My lipstick?” She stalks over to her and rips off the oversized dress that does not seem so colorful anymore, instead turning gray and sad as the girl begins to cry. “No son of mine would…” The girl flinches at the dreaded word, and the mother’s tone softens. “Go put on some clothes, Ray.” The girl scurries out of the room, sobbing to herself. The mother soon follows, casting a last look at the havoc within, sighs, and closes the door behind her.

The once-beautiful dress sits on the floor, torn, forlorn, dreaming of some day.