Four Dresses

Claire and I watched Sleeping Beauty last night, the first time in years. We always say the same thing; She doesn't even know his name? How can she marry that guy? 

Earlier in the day, in a synchronistic moment, I found this sketch, written when Claire was three; a time when the two of us hung out, most days, in our own little world.

Four Dresses

Claire wears four dresses, 

layering one over the other.

The purple one, a faded cotton, is torn at the hem. She will not let me mend it.

The nightie, a fairy blue, is flouncy and full. See how it spins, she says, arms out, turning in a patch of morning light, catching glimpses of herself in the teapot cabinet.

The third dress, deep blue, straps wrapped over her shoulders, becomes a cape streaming behind her while she races through the kitchen. She cinches the pink dress around her waist, it has to be tight, she says, looking over her shoulder as the long train sweeps over cherry floors. No panties, no socks. Pink satin slippers, trimmed in gold, scuffed and dirty around the edges, slip easily on her feet. Quietly, she gathers up her dresses in hand, plastic crown on small, round head, and dips into a curtsy.


note to self: follow your bliss