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Hand-Me-Down Tartan Memory






















The dress is so far from fitting me now.

Partly because of the care I was allowed but also,

we all grow up.


Comforting colored threads of olive green,

and gold -

woven through the cotton plaid.

hand-me-down,

pulled from the discarded bag of clothes -

you once wore.


You with your perfectly straight raven black bob

that shimmered like magic in the northwest afternoon sun.

The polychromatic threads teased of potential beauty-

that might be mine if-

I too could make its skirt sway.


Deanna Day, childhood playmate, fellow dancer, backyard adventurer,

Memorable,

lost with the closing of the moving van pulldown door.


So, I wore that dress

that you once wore

as we walked the perimeter of the playground,

where we knew the enchantment

of clapping rhymes, jacks, and hopscotch.

Miss Mary Mack;


The Sailor Went to Sea, Sea, Sea;

Say, Say Oh Playmate;

Unified chanting,

belonging,

tolerance,

acceptance, and impartiality.


Sitting in the shade of the giant pin oak,

your skirt echoed the array of multi-colored fingers-

clapping one to another,

keeping time together,

becoming one in rhyme.

Blending with the colors of the forest

draping your lap,

making a complete circle

around the true essence of innocence.


Eventually the dress shortened beyond my arguments.

And memories too shorten with passing time,

I’m afraid.

Yet, still the olive of Autumn moss

the gold of freshly harvested honeycomb

allows me to wonder

who you are today.


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