I dreamed that I opened my closet to get a light weight dress for the concert and there were none that fit. Although I had worn them recently, they all appeared too narrow when I held them against my hips. I tossed the last garment and went to the bureau to see if anything was good to wear in there.
When I opened the first drawer, clothes began springing up as if on wire coils of an old mattress. As I tried to catch them, I noted that they were all the clothes I owned in my lifetime:
Flannel pajamas with feet in them in a small size and a blue coat I had as a kindergartner. I carried a little blue matching leather purse with the white poodle on it that I hit the big people in the department store who got in front of me when we shopped.
The black silk caftan with the large red flowers all down one side that flowed to the ground—I’d had that while married to Bob. All these clothes and more coming out were my history from childhood to the present time.
Most, like the white jersey Grecian prom dress I wore with Dan to my senior prom, I hadn’t seen in years. I had a silver coiled snake bracelet that I wore high on my bicep and felt like Helen of Troy.
There was my graduation dress, beige silk covered in white lace—and I was thin then. Dan had his suit tailored at the local men’s store and we were a handsome couple—all I have left of it is a photo.
The last dress to fold itself into my arms was a black velvet short sheath dress with red embroidery on the sleeves and hem; I wore it only once—after that I never got slim enough to go through the physical and emotional trauma of trying it on.
The apparel storm over, I chose a pair of cut-off Levis shorts and a white t-shirt. When I woke in my living room recliner, that’s what I was wearing.
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