Mannequins
A dress form is a peculiar thing.
It sits in a storefront window,
Showcasing a dressmaker’s work.
Much like a dress form,
I was held up as a model,
Put on a pedestal
Viewed as proof of my mother’s adeptness as a parent.
Miss Millie was an antique dress form my mother kept in our home.
She represented everything I was supposed to be: silent, tall, skinny, perfect.
My mother had similar standards for us, her prized possessions:
Miss Millie and favorite daughter, me.
We were expected to be flawless, perfectly put together, and always just out of the way.
Sadly, Millie was better at that than I was.
We spent our time silently observing, serving our purposes without protest.
Millie was stabbed with pins while serving her purpose.
She didn’t receive mouthfuls of vinegar for talking back
Bruises hidden under homemade dresses for minor transgressions—
The facade of being loved and valued that came with the role of the perfect daughter.
It’s a silly thing to be envious of a mannequin, but that’s what I felt.
The year my mother had a stroke is hazy at best in my memory.
Miss Millie, along with the other trappings of my childhood, disappeared.
One morning the screeching of the fire alarm woke me up
(Mother always did have trouble remembering to open the flue).
I threw open all of the windows and doors despite it being the middle of January.
I grabbed extra blankets and crawled back into bed.
I woke up a few hours later and heard the familiar buzz of the treadmill in the basement.
My mother expected a level of perfection for herself as well- some would call it vanity.
The rest of the day was a blur.
After finding her seemingly lifeless body on the basement floor,
I remember the kind woman from 911 on the phone.
I remember having strawberry ice cream with gummy bears for lunch.
I remember the words stroke and life support. In fact, the rest of the year was a blur.
I could only remember it by reading
Daily updates my dad wrote
I’ve never been able to bring myself to read them,
To relive that time.
The stroke broke down my mom’s facade of a perfect housewife;
The abuse and affairs came to light.
Once she was out of the hospital,
She just left.
I’m not sure where Miss Millie ended up,
Probably in a resale shop
Someone else’s house
Or a landfill somewhere.
But as for me,
I became the anti-Millie,
The opposite of the dress form
That repressive symbol of all I was supposed to be
But never could become.
The hardest things,
Sometimes which occur in an instant,
Are often the things that shape who we are.
I didn’t have to be anything after my mother’s stroke,
So I became myself.
I am a work in progress,
But we all are.
I don’t anticipate perfection,
But my outlook is forever altered.
I feel compelled to learn, grow, and adapt.
I am viscerally incapable of settling for ignorance
In exchange for the promise of bliss.
I am compelled to make a difference;
I want my life to count,
Even for one other person.
The work,
The challenge,
And the ultimate reward
Will be worth it.
I must continue
To learn
To work on myself
To become all I was intended to be
Not driven by a controlling mother
Or a tragic loss
But beckoned by a universe
Expectantly waiting for me to be the best me.
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