Blue Dresses and Beloved Curls

I’m doing that thing again
Ordering dresses online, blue ones
Tonight, I noticed all the dresses are blue
They still have their tags
I don’t wear dresses anymore

I looked through my brother’s scrapbook
While he was dying in the living room
There was a photo of my mother sitting on a couch
Her hands folded in her lap
She wore a baseball cap over her straight, chopped hair

She could not have known this was happening
In her mind’s eye, her hair would be arranged in a French twist
Her hat would be felt with a feather
How did this happen, I thought, why didn’t anyone call me
I would have curled her hair and given her a proper hat

My mother wore dresses with belts
Pencil skirts and t-strap pumps, always black, polished
Her nails were bright red like her lipstick, her hair piled on her head in curls
She pressed my dresses and petticoats
I wore lace anklets to church with patent leather shoes

I’m going to wear the dresses, I just don’t know when
It doesn’t matter, I think, I am too old for it to matter
No one sees me, I wear a baseball cap and my hair is straight
I can see the blue dresses when I lie in bed
Sometimes the wind moves them ever so gently