Tiny Beads

When I was eighteen, and still in love with you, I purchased a dress..online..from a less than reputable source. The dress was a remake of a 1920s flapper dress. It was white and sparkling silver..with carefully placed sequins and fringe made of delicate, tiny beads.

I never wore that dress out of my room. I had such plans for that dress…such plans for us…to dance under the moon and the stars. I loved to put it on…to stand in front of my mirror and lightly sway my hips so that the beads rippled around my legs. I felt beautiful, regal and delicate…like an incarnate Daisy Buchanan. But I never did wear it outside the confines of those four adolescent walls.

Recently, for the first time in three years, I decided to put the dress on. I was no longer in love with you and I was afraid that it wouldn’t fit…but it did. I stood in front of my mirror, and did a quick step or two of the Charleston…not too hard…not too fast…I didn’t want to shake the tiny beads from the dress. I was afraid that their heavy weight would pull the seams from the fabric, that the tiny beads would go flying- irreparable and wasted.

But I was so tired of wearing that dress…without really wearing it. Of shaking so lightly that the beads will only ripple and never swing…of moving so carefully…so calculatingly. So I decided to put the dress on…and I decided to dance. to really dance with reckless abandon. Without you. Without the moon or the stars. With only me.

It was frightening, but as the music in my head turned louder, the beads swung more and more wildly around my thighs, and as I danced, a few of the delicate silver strands of tiny beads did swing off- like beams of light. Like shooting stars. And I was their moon. And suddenly…I had faith.

 

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