Last night, I dreamed I was pretty.

(You are pretty!)
(Aw, thank you. So kind.)

A friend found a dress and it reminded her of me.
A pretty dress!
Reminded her of me!

A big, loud floral of fuscia silk-satin.
Straight off of a 1950’s McCall’s sewing pattern. Down to the ankle. Perfect for swirling around long, slim legs and little pointed heels. A white and floral bodice for a tiny waist, and little cap sleeves for smooth, shapely arms.

“I’m sorry,” I said, my heart shriveled into beige and navy blue, my high-waisted jeans pooching and pouching, my newly-healed ankle still stocky and flat. “I don’t think it will fit.”

“Just try it,” she said. My friend who saw beauty and thought of me. “I’ll fix the parts that don’t fit.” And she could. She could fix anything fabric.

I had been trying to fix me, but I couldn’t nip in the waist, no matter how hard I tried.

So I stepped into the melted silken puddle, pulled it up and zipped the back, and, miracle of miracles, it fit!

I looked down, and there they were! The long, slim legs, the slender arms, the tiny waist. I twirled the satin, swirling fuscia floral around delicate ankles, and quickly found little pointed heels; my face alight, hair brown and bouncing, lips red, cheeks pink.

And I ran down the halls of the hotel, chasing
A tall boy with curly hair
Who couldn’t believe his good luck when I caught him,
And my hand found his arm
Sitting two kids apart
Grinning like fools
At the music around us.

I cried, waking up.
In beige and navy blue.

(But you’re so pretty!)
(Aw, thank you. So kind.)