Meditation 32

old.

Once upon a time, there was a girl who was not an orphan tended by a woman who was not a nanny in a red brick house that could never be, by any calisthenics of imagination, a castle—though there was a view of the sea.

That girl sitting at the table was me. That woman standing by the stove was my mother.

We lived then in the late splendor of catalogues. Everything we ever wanted could be found on a glossy page. Locate the little white letter in the upper right corner, then call and place your order.

I liked to linger in lingerie, with my scissors and my paste and my tablet of red construction paper. These were old catalogues, mine to cut and alter. My mother stirred a pot of something frothy and said, “Pack a suitcase.” This was only pretend. She wanted me to choose the clothes I would take on the trip that comes after the wedding.

If the man was there, the man who was every day less my savior and more my father, he would fill a glass with water and lean beside the sink. “Did someone order a honeymoon salad?” I never got it. I shook my head. Then he’d chuckle—“Lettuce alone!”

I noticed over time the faces of women in the catalogues. There were not many of them, so the same woman wore garment after garment, sometimes with her hair let down or her lipstick lightly blotted. One face I loved—the dark curls, the pert nose, the creamy complexion. She posed in nightgowns, pajamas, matching bras and panties. Once, I found her in a black lace body suit. Though it seemed transparent, nothing was visible beneath it. I expected a glimpse of her real body, but she had none. She was like a doll arranged on a low chaise lounge: her elbow bent by someone else, a smile painted across her lips, her bright eyes unblinking.

“Have you found what you’ll wear on your wedding night?” My mother leaned across the counter as I tore the page free and trimmed its edges.

“This,” I said, triumphant.

“That’s a little racy,” she murmured. “Why don’t you try again?”

blue.

One of my earliest memories is of a wedding. It is blurry in that way of memories before they contain narratives. Summer, I think, because my skin is warm. I wear a white eyelet dress with a blue sash that matches the blue ribbon tied around my white Easter bonnet. This bonnet keeps the sun from blinding my eyes.

My parents are there—my mother in a long skirt, my father in suit and tie. We sit in chairs on the lawn, and someone rolls a carpet down the makeshift aisle. A woman with hair like a silver curtain strums the strings of a harp.

I cannot recall precisely the bride or groom, the minister’s deep voice and lavish robes, the boy who bears the ring. Two girls, not much older than I, scatter petals from small woven baskets. My mother squeezes my hand. I study everyone’s shoes. In the distance, a little dog paces behind a fence, waits for the dancing to begin.

I think in the way of thoughts before they are tied into words, parcels made tidy with knowing. The gist of it, folded into a bow—this is the most important thing I could ever do.

old.

I have cut three wedding gowns from the catalogue and smoothed them onto thick sheets of paper. My mother reviews them, remarks on the gown she likes best.

“And when will this wedding take place?”

“Christmastime,” I say. “There should be snow. We may have to go to the mountains.”

“The best time for a wedding is spring or summer. Your father and I were married in August.”

“But my bridesmaids will wear velvet,” I explain. “Red velvet dresses with furry white pouches to keep their hands warm.” I have seen this before in a film.

“How will they carry their flowers?” She is testing me now.

“White roses,” I say...