It took someone two minutes to screw together this mockery of “country” which means, in real life, things sheened from use, rubbed with hands, breath and sweat, not shining with bottled, lacquery crap. – Lia Purpura
My mouth is full of ivory. Days of lace and satin and my arms lifted up and reaching to the faces of consultants. Pounds and pounds of crinoline and tulle dropped soft and slick against my shoulders. My hands holding beads against my breasts as slips are tugged and zippers slid.
All to find a wedding dress. Off the rack. Perfect, nearly, as such things should be.
I love so many things about my dress, not the least of which is that it is worn, that it carries the sweat and hopes of women, who slid their arms against the soft lining and waited to see whether this piece of fabric could carry themselves through the mirror to their hearts.
I love that with me on that special day I will bear the molecules of other women on my skin and in the folds that wrap my hips.
I love that in my dress multitudes gather their hopes and pass them to me.