An Estrangement Called Love

Twiglet rustling cotton
“A twiglet’s aim is to “prompt” a thought. If something comes to mind, write. A polished piece isn’t the goal; creativity is.” 

I’d watch her as she made-up her face,
fresh from her bath, clad in a fluffy robe,
under which she wore the accoutrements
of the day, bra, girdle, stockings, full slip.
Chanel #5 wafting through the room.
On the bed, laid out like an offering
was the red dress. Form fitting, low, ruffled
neck and plunging back. She filled it out
perfectly. Curvy, hour-glass figure.  Black
shiny tall heeled, narrow toed shoes
waiting like Cinderella’s glass slippers
for a night of dancing with the prince or
at least a knight in shining armor.

That was how daughters learned the art
and some learned it well, but not me.
It was all artifice, or so it seemed to be.
I chose ragged-edged bell bottoms and
long, straight hair, patchouli and incense,
determined to be me, free, striking a new
path, or so I thought. Turns out each
generation has their own way and some
things remain the same. And sometimes,
in my dreams I hear the rustling of delicate
things and smell Chanel #5 and patchouli
staging a mother-daughter awkward dance.