My mother loved to wear loud colors, especially red. Her laugh could be heard above the din of any crowded room.
Not me. I dress mostly in black, try to fade unnoticed into the background of other peoples’ lives. I avoid parties.
But my eyes crave color, my hands long to manipulate texture and shape, to form visual ideas that enhance and delight. I have a hidden closet full of rainbows—painted, embroidered, knitted, woven into intricate arrangements.
All those vivid narratives remain unworn by my own days, the ones I dress in, their stories patterned and purple.
As night surrounds me, only then do I take them out to display, to embellish my own possibilities. I close my eyes and enter a parallel world, one in which I cover myself with a thousand glittering mirrors, quilted with moonlight, seams stitched with prismatic stars.
For dverse, where Lisa asked us…
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