"The Forgotten Dresses" by Dana Robbins
The Forgotten Dresses
When either of my sisters had a date,
she would pouf her hair, put on a dress —
perhaps scarlet satin or lavender floral —
then make a grand entrance down the six stairs
to the living room of our small, pretty house.
My father took pictures; my mother clapped
hands, sang, “Here she is, Miss America.”
I, a decade younger than they were, dreamed
that one day I too would be so glamorous.
When my sisters left home for college,
then marriage, I inherited their old room.
They left their dresses behind as they sported
new styles: bell-bottoms, peasant clothes
to go with their now long, straight hair.
In my big, new room, I slipped the forgotten
dresses on over my flat, pudgy chest, inhabited
them, tried to find the cure for loneliness
in my own reflection.
Photo Credit: Staff