Member-only story
Dress Me Up and Let Me Go
Short fiction about loss, longing, and the long days of summer
If you ever find yourself alone in your world, feeling lost and sad and uncertain, just put on the dress. You know, the frilly one with lace, the one that Mom made you wear when you were seven. You remember that, don’t you? I know you do. I do, because I was there, next to you.
The two of us were as thick as skin back then. We stood side by side, in church, the one on Jackson, not Ellis Street, decked out in our matching yellow dresses with Mary Janes and our hair in two braids — the ones that Mom meticulously braided, the ones that you ripped out the second she wasn’t looking, and then you gave me that mischievous look as if to say, “Don’t tell anyone.” Remember that, Carrie?
It was stiflingly hot in church that day. My socks and my underwear were sliding down and out of my body from being close to so many people. I always ask Mom how many people attend church and she says she doesn’t know. She guesses that it’s about 75 to 80 people every week, but to me, it seems like a lot. Mr. Humphrey was next to me, while you were on the other side, next to Mom. Occasionally, he’d let out a loud cough, sending his saliva directly into my face. Then he’d shuffle in his loafers and adjust his tie for the fifteenth time while I rolled my eyes.
