Wednesday, May 25th

Sometimes I need help
remembering who I am.
The normal triggers and
signposts
don't manifest.
They slumber --
taking a welcome break, I suppose.
And so today, after the girls
go to school
and after I
get dressed,
tuck away fresh laundry,
grab a few necessities
at the grocery store
and return to my now-empty home,
I look around vaguely.
I lack clarity of purpose.

Today is my day off.
I've arranged things so that
there is nothing pressing
on the domestic front.
If I choose to, I may sit
in my plentiful grey chair
all day,
feet propped up, mug perched nearby.
I think, Maybe I'll finish the Auster novel
I picked up at the library.
The sun has other ideas.
Unobstructed by clouds
or the threat of rain, a star (literally)
in its own right,
it pulls me outside
to the side porch.
I kick my white winter legs
out in front of me,
and they drink the warmth as truly
as I drink my tea.

Who am I?

On other similarly quiet days,
if I don't run right out to see a friend for lunch
or a movie,
or duck into a thrift shop to hunt,
when I let the quiet come and tickle my ears,
I can feel abstracted,
alone,
missing the immediacy and consistency
of the needs of my family,
their hugs and kisses, their demands.
Today, almost as a discipline,
I will serve *my* needs.
But what are they?

Finally, I bring my reddening legs
back into the shade,
the deep shade of the attic --
where I am slowly wading through boxes
in the hopes of lightening up.
I finish sorting books and
a bag full of kids clothes
and head into a small side room
where a rolling coat rack holds
some of my treasures.
I slide open the plastic zipper
in search of giveaways,
flab,
but instead I find
me.

There I am, in the form of a summer dress.
Two, three, four, snug together,
all vintage,
all brightly colored and patterned,
very original and eluding categorization by era,
carefully culled from years of visits
to garages and estate sales,
second-hand stores,
my grandmother's closet.

I grab them, unhook the hangers,
redo the storage-bag zipper snugly,
and then tromp back to my room
to model them -- me -- for myself.

With each "new" dress,
I breathe easier, better.
Yes, yes, my whole self seems to be saying,
here you are in that floor-length Mexican one,
Where did you get it again? A friend's castoff,
I remember now. Did she even charge me?
And the white wool tennis dress?
Fits like a glove, but will you ever wear it?
Who cares, it's winning. In the closet
it goes.
Yes, yes, my self speaks clearly now,
you are a mom and homemaker,
a baker of bread,
but you are also one hell of a
shopper
with a razor-sharp eye.

Now that the sun is out and high,
I don my favorite by far, the dress with the turquoise background
punctuated by red and purple flowers.
On any other dress it is a tacky combination,
but on this one it is magic.
I snip the belt off, something I should have done
years ago,
and choose a violet leather one instead.
I go out now, out of my house,
out of my shell,
toward more references,
more reminders of me.
To the cinema (of course!),
last Sunday's crossword in hand
and colorful thoughts in my heart.