I have a dress. I was taken with its muted grey, its understated classic style. It seemed to drape beautifully.
I purchased. It came in the post and I carefully opened the package, anxiously slipped it on.
And it didn’t work. The dress itself was lovely. But just not on this curveless frame.
When I came home from Paris, I grabbed a mop, a pail of soapy water. One farmer and six children bringing the land into house necessitates a mama. So I hoped. A seven day absence happily confirmed it. (My eldest’s voice crackled over the Skype connection when I had contacted home: “I miss you, Mom. Every time I think of you, I clean something up.”)
And in the homecoming flurry of cleaning, this out-of-the-way space too got decluttered, tidied, organized.
I like its understated style, it’s hushed tones. I tried it on, smoothed out the fabric, checked its drape.
Someone said it was chic. And I knew.
It didn’t work. Lovely, but chic doesn’t fit this still place, me. Just something simple, plain, everyday.
The floors are clean now. The windows washed.
I’m off to find my clothespin.
