The Vow

In pastel cocoons of tulle
and lace we huddle
in the closet of my
mother's sister while
the ladies sip cocktails
by the pool. Our tiny room
is filled with elegant gowns.
My aunt has worn each,
once, as a bridesmaid.

Deenie, peering from her
cage of lavender lace,
is pale purple in the soft
arc of her flashlight. We
nibble on mints and drink
air champagne from
dance slippers.
I place aqua heels,
that match the frock
I'm crouching under,
onto my hands,
and tap tap out from under
the hem in pigeon-toed steps.
The dresses are faintly scented
from perfume, cigarette smoke,
excitement of parties
long ago.

My mother's white
bridal dress, packed in a
special carton from the
cleaners and smelling of
mothballs, does not seem
related to these costumes at all.
Mother is cold and
untouchable, while
Aunt Belle is all hugs
and laughter. We know
it is the dresses
that have made them this way,
and before we leave our lovely
ruffled abodes,
we cross arms, clasp hands,
and make a pact:
Never, never, never.

The gowns hang,
frivolous and free,
bright beckoning balloons,
as we close the closet door.

Mary Ellen Seidel
6/22/2002