The Dress

The dress is still in my head.

Not in the closet. Just in my head.

White. A veil that moved when I moved,

heavy enough to be serious,

light enough to forget about

until I turned a certain way.

Seven years. The store closed.

The style is probably gone now.

The girl who tried it on is gone now—

not dead, just gone,

the way people go when they stop

reaching for the same things.

My coworker's still talking about her date.

June. The color scheme. Her mother's earrings.

I'm smiling the right smile.

I'm saying the right things.

But I'm thinking about the dress,

how it fit in a way that felt like

I was borrowing someone else's life,

how I wanted to buy it

and then I didn't,

and then I wanted to want it,

and then I didn't want to want it anymore.

The mirror at David's Bridal had good light.

I looked like someone about to start.

Now I look like someone who stayed.

The coworker is showing me pictures.

The dress in the photos is always someone else.