In the back of my mother's closet
hangs her wedding dress.
Waiting to be rescued from
its coffin, and tired of being
the last evidence of a love
now lost to dust and mothballs.
Not a thread is misplaced.
The plastic sheet shields it
from my long grasping fingers that
attempt to extract bits of happiness
from the holes in the lace and silk and white.
Lonely tears dangle, entwined with the fabric,
glinting and winking with an enticing sparkle.
Someday you'll wear this dress, she said,
but I won't; I can't.
I grew past her, leaving the dress behind.
There is no room for me within the opal folds.
I've turned this pure material into a funeral gown.
Though anchored in Iowa,
I carry it with me, knowing it's not meant to be.
Not even beautiful, with its garish shine.
Still, it was striking, once, in my mother's eyes.
Her hands lovingly traced the pattern,
the cloth holding her with care.
Witnessing the final moment
of that dress's glory would be stunning.
Though destined not to be shrouded in its brilliance,
I mourn the demolished legacy
of the pearlescent robe
never meant to glow again.
