I lie in bed,
my thighs bent inside a paisley polyester skirt.
Paisley’s appeal has always been a mystery to me. Curls and colors in tight, dense clusters, like papules of a rash.
I bought this skirt in a store full of cheap things for, of all things, its colors.
Brown-almost-black, lollipop purple, beige-almost-yellow, the red orange crayon memory of kindergarten art class.
I didn’t like the style of it, but I knew it would match a lot of things, that taking care of it would be easy, that I could put it on without thinking, wear it just about anywhere.
I told myself it was pretty, convinced myself, in the moment, that this was true.
I am calm and warm now under its weight, remembering our past. The holiday parties in white folks’ dens. The church I tried to love with an unbelieving heart. The chicken-and-shake joints selling cheap ecstasy in foil and styrofoam. This skirt has survived so many places, two decades of hard life, and my low expectations. Survived even though I never really gave it a chance, held on to the colors I never appreciated, kept its swish and sway, in spite of me.
I wish I could say my thinking has evolved. It has not. I still don’t believe in the beauty of paisley. Whether I am stubborn or jealous, I don’t know. Maybe one day I will find a way out of my opinion. Right now, I am too tired to change.
January 10-17, 2024