Entry for Brigits Flame
Hi, everyone! The piece below is my entry into the August writing contest for Brigits Flame. It's short, around 350 words, so read if you want to, and as always, tell me what you think.
“Mummy, what do you think?”
She jumps out from behind the dressing room curtain, twirling around: hands over her head, hair flying, the skirt of the dress she’s trying on flapping and billowing around her knees. She comes to rest in the three-way mirror that’s next to me, frowning at her reflection, turning this way and that to get the best view.
“Isn’t it pretty?”
I study her in the mirror: her brown limbs, browner freckles, messed hair, effervescent grin. The dress she has on is lovely, but the low v-neckline makes me squirm. Although there’s nothing to see, but still . . . She is ten years old, still a fairy child, but the childish roundness has gone out of her face. She carries the shadow of the woman she will become around with her now; it frightens me beyond reason.
“It’s lovely, honey, but I think the neck is too low.”
She folds her arms across her chest, and cocks her hip, glaring at me in the mirror. It is a look I recognize as trouble; one my husband says I use on him all the time. “But I like it.”
“I’m sorry, the neck is too low. It isn’t appropriate.” We are glaring at each other in the mirror, now, each convinced that she is right, and the other is emotional and unreasonable; your classic mother-daughter impasse.
“Please, Mummy?” She relents first: her lower lip begins to tremble, and the cranky pre-adolescent is once again my fairy child, my one-and-only.
I look at her in the dress again. The length is just right, the color is perfect for her, and she wants it so desperately. Was it so long ago that I was ten, wanting some trendy item that my oh-so-practical mother deemed unnecessary? How long will it be before she no longer allows me the privilege of taking her shopping? In a few years, she will grow into the determined young woman I see behind her eyes, and I will be mother-as-adjunct; occasionally useful but mostly dull and embarrassing. I decide to compromise.
“Well . . . What if we got a little tank top to go under it? If we do that, you can have the dress.”
“Thank you, Mummy!” She lights up, leaping into my arms and covering my face with kisses. I relish this moment, so brief, when she is wholly a child. She lets me go and skips back into the dressing room, hair and arms flying about once again. She changes, and we head off to find that tank top, hand in hand, trailing the shadows of all the selves we have been, and will be.
“Mummy, what do you think?”
She jumps out from behind the dressing room curtain, twirling around: hands over her head, hair flying, the skirt of the dress she’s trying on flapping and billowing around her knees. She comes to rest in the three-way mirror that’s next to me, frowning at her reflection, turning this way and that to get the best view.
“Isn’t it pretty?”
I study her in the mirror: her brown limbs, browner freckles, messed hair, effervescent grin. The dress she has on is lovely, but the low v-neckline makes me squirm. Although there’s nothing to see, but still . . . She is ten years old, still a fairy child, but the childish roundness has gone out of her face. She carries the shadow of the woman she will become around with her now; it frightens me beyond reason.
“It’s lovely, honey, but I think the neck is too low.”
She folds her arms across her chest, and cocks her hip, glaring at me in the mirror. It is a look I recognize as trouble; one my husband says I use on him all the time. “But I like it.”
“I’m sorry, the neck is too low. It isn’t appropriate.” We are glaring at each other in the mirror, now, each convinced that she is right, and the other is emotional and unreasonable; your classic mother-daughter impasse.
“Please, Mummy?” She relents first: her lower lip begins to tremble, and the cranky pre-adolescent is once again my fairy child, my one-and-only.
I look at her in the dress again. The length is just right, the color is perfect for her, and she wants it so desperately. Was it so long ago that I was ten, wanting some trendy item that my oh-so-practical mother deemed unnecessary? How long will it be before she no longer allows me the privilege of taking her shopping? In a few years, she will grow into the determined young woman I see behind her eyes, and I will be mother-as-adjunct; occasionally useful but mostly dull and embarrassing. I decide to compromise.
“Well . . . What if we got a little tank top to go under it? If we do that, you can have the dress.”
“Thank you, Mummy!” She lights up, leaping into my arms and covering my face with kisses. I relish this moment, so brief, when she is wholly a child. She lets me go and skips back into the dressing room, hair and arms flying about once again. She changes, and we head off to find that tank top, hand in hand, trailing the shadows of all the selves we have been, and will be.