Sweetness or Stuff

A little memory – a treasure to cherish.

Rummaging in the Antique Store with my boys,

looking through playthings of the past.

They call me to try on a beautiful faux fur,

and it fits, and it’s glorious,

and I am the toast of the town.

 

The large Islander man at the back counter

with the massive smile and the tiny woman

wearing all sparkles and glitter for New Year’s

are both determined that I enjoy

my moment in the sun.

 

I put on the coat and traipse around

trying to find a mirror. I do my catwalk,

shoulders gliding,

and my boys follow along in laughter.

 

The tiny woman squeals from another aisle,

“Come see – come see,” she cries.

An old bureau with a tall mirror

and I am magnificent!

 

My little one tells me I must, I must have it!

My older boy sees Cruella De Vil

and that’s a compliment from him

as he’s always drawn to the dark side,

the villain, and she was a stylish villain.

 

It is not expensive or out of reach.

I could do it, but where would I put it,

and where would I wear it?

We are country people surrounded

by fields and grazing animals.

 

Friends chime in afterwards, “The Theatre!

Wear it to the Theatre!”

 

But I am satisfied by the sweetness of the memory.

I have no need for more stuff.

 

The photos, taken by my children.

The twirling around, the lights, the fanfare,

my hair pulled down from its ponytail

to cascade around my face.

 

The moments themselves, the whimsey,

are etched forever and timeless.

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