"A One Day Dress"

A woman is far more than the sum of her parts. She is at once a creature of dramatic emotion and startling clarity. She is the clay that shatters her sociological mold even as she occupies it, busying herself with redecorating so that it might feel less like the mold of everyone else. A woman embodies the fiery passion of chaos and exudes the cold logic of reason. She is the answer to her own conundrum.

Unfortunately, it is a rare woman who realizes these traits before her hourglass runs its course.

Tomorrow is my fourth appointment with my chemotherapist. I stand just outside the painted pine of the bedroom's walk-in closet, my hand set upon the door. The wig sprawls across my strawberry-pattern sheets, flung there in desperation only a moment ago. It is not the wig's fault. Like so many of my companions in this life, it only happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I run my fingers along the smoothness that is my scalp, long since deprived of hair. It is the ashen wasteland of ground zero to me: barren, empty, its only purpose to remind others of what they ought to be thankful for. Even so, that line of thought is a road I have too often traveled and I know that my remaining time cannot be squandered by walking it again. With a sigh of determination I push open the painted pine door and step inside the walk-in closet.

The sights have not changed to any palpable extent. Collections of shoes and skirts lying out for selection, pants neatly folded over hangars, and makeup kits lying safely tucked away in boxes... none of them deserve the attention I have allotted. It is to my left that my sights focus, to a row of garments dangling untouched inside static-free, plastic-coated wombs.

I smile as I read the hand-painted sign I placed over that row so many years ago.

"A One Day Dress," it reads. It is a treasure trove of memories for me, one of which my late husband always disapproved but I insisted on maintaining. Life, I had told him on more than one occasion, has a way of reminding us of events, people, and places through some of the strangest machinations. I simply prefer to keep my machinations on hangars.

On the far left hangs a little girl's flower-printed outfit. A Sunday School dress, I fondly recall as its gentle rose and faded black whisk me away to my first day of school. How precious I must have looked, my eyes singing in the sparkling shades of enthusiasm that children take for granted! The world had not yet tainted my outlook back then and I knew that, with this dress, I would be prepared for anything.

As it turned out, I only wore that printed dress once. I struggle to recall the name of the mischievous little boy whose glue bottle had found its way onto the seat of my little chair, but still, I cannot help but chuckle. Parts of the dress still carry rips from my method of getting up that day, but any bitterness I maintained afterwards has long since been dispelled. At least, it has since I dated that same little boy a few years later.

I push the kindergarten dress aside, turning my attention to the next in line. Regret gives way to fondness in short order as my fingertips linger upon the royal blue of my high school prom dress. It had seemed like such a life-altering day to me back then, when I had reluctantly agreed to go with a dear friend, Joseph, instead of holding out to ask my personal crush if he would mind taking me. His name was Stanley and, though I cannot see why I ever pined for him these days, I certainly envied his girlfriends enough back then.

The Dance under the Stars, it had been called. I snicker at the memory of their excuse for a night sky, but even more so at the thought of the old janitor Murl unscrewing every third lightbulb to make it happen. The dress had fit me like we were hewn from the same stone, though, and by the end of the night I had forgotten all about Stanley. Joseph had my attention, my interest, and a date for the following Tuesday. I smile now, as I think back, and push the prom dress to the side. The dress never again saw the light of day, of course, but I am glad to know that it retains its place of honor..

"Ah," I think as the third One Day Dress is revealed to my weary eyes. "How could I ever forget you?"

A train dotted with colorful faux flowers leading up to a conservative pearl bodice and set atop colorful layers of silky satin could only mean that my hand lay upon my mother's cherished wedding gown. Mine, now. Joseph and I had fought a taxing battle against our respective parents over our decision to wed, he a rookie police officer and I a manager at a local fast food institution. Only my dear mother blessed the union. I can feel her tears coming to my own eyes as I recall how she had sent us to elope, to follow our hearts wherever they might lead. And we did.

Blinking back tears I do not want, I push aside Mother's wedding dress. As if in intentional contrast to the pure white of that dress, the next sighs in black tinged with midnight blue. Ebon gloves and a translucent, net-like veil complete yet another ensemble to only see a single day upon my body. Joseph would not have wished for me to spend my days in tearful solitude, and so I push the mourning dress aside as well. I have no time for recollections of sorrow. Not today.

Outside, the impatient cabbie leans on his horn. It is time for me to go. I have a thirty-sixth birthday party to attend in the next county, and my son will want me to be punctual. But before I go, I lay my fingertips upon the fifth plastic tomb hanging beneath my hand-painted sign. Clean and completely empty, this static-free bag reminds me that there is at least one more One Day Dress for me to don. Empty as it is, it reminds me that I have nothing suitable in which to be interred.

I realize that that is not good enough for me. A smile comes to my lips, a single ray of light shining all the way to the bottom of the well. I am not beaten, for the bag remains empty. It seems silly to think of it only now, but as long as that fifth bag remains free of a One Day Dress I can still finish out on top. I push the empty bag to the right, away from my collection of One Day Dresses lest its hollow influence should taint the beautiful memories tucked away in each.

The cabbie lays down upon his horn again. I cannot understand his impatience. After all, the meter is still running. As quickly as I can manage I unfold more static-free bags from beneath the closet, attach each to new hangars, and slip them onto my row of One Day Dresses. I smile as I turn, scooping up my unfortunate wig as I pass.

The day is young, and I have dresses to try on.