Attachment problems, you could say I had, as a young girl, and even now. When I loved something, I gave it all I had. That included the outfit I wore for as long as I could remember.
It was white with ruffles on the shoulders, though by the time I outgrew it, I’m sure it was moreso a faded yellow. The bottom half was caressed with thin green stripes, and on the right side of the beltline, there was a dragonfly.
I loved this dress, as I recall I did everything in it. If it was intended to be a dress you wear to church or an Aunt’s wedding, those rules never entered my mind.
The dress was a safety blanket for me. I wore it so often, and played so much, that it was ripping and shrinking off of the skin I grew. Not that it bothered me one bit, as I continued to wear it.
I wore it outside when the smell of chalk invaded any possible room for oxygen. Pinks and reds and purples and greens all stained the white of the dress, and the late afternoon sunbeams warmed the crease in my neck.
I wore it inside when Barbie went swimming inside the hollowed bathtub of our sky-blue walled bathroom, close enough a sky for any imagination. Barbie made too much a splash and water drenched the front of my dress, but it slid past my thoughts. Later on, the drying of my dress would harden and crinkle against my skin, because now it was not as soft as it once was, and the chalk stains turned to paint.
I wore it on the trampoline with my little sister, who loved to act as if I was an egg and the goal of the force from her small, twig legs was to crack me open. I held on to my knees as a koala hangs on to his branch, bouncing like a ball, and swaying from side to side, scuffing up my dress on every inch. Black skid marks were a token from the trampoline that I never once took for granted.
I wore the dress while eating dinner, the hill of spaghetti a force to be reckoned with. Not even I could control where the slurps and slips of each bite would land. Most on my dress, some on the floor where the dog would wag and sniff and lick.
A few years later, the dress had become a shirt and I had beyond outgrown it. My little sister was handed it down, but I never knew what happened to it afterwards. I liked to believe that it was given to another little girl to play around in, or donated to someone else.
About a month ago, I was sitting in a restaurant when I saw a blonde headed girl wearing it.
Maybe not the exact dress, even though I would definitely love to believe that. She sat in the booth with her family and older brother, eating spaghetti.
I like to believe she loves chalk, Barbie, and trampolines too.
Until next time,