The Cocktail Dress

We knew we would be home alone— my sister and I—a rare delight of frozen meat pies and oven-baked French fries. We waited at our round kitchen table for the timer to sound, knowing the shiny, space-age oven always ran hot. Then she walked in—our mother—in what she called a cocktail dress. I’d never seen a housewife wear anything so fancy— full skirt, wide waistband and the material a silky blend wild with oversized turquoise flowers, around her neck a wave of chiffon. Despite her heels, they’d be dancing— my father hoping for foxtrots and some swing tunes. She was striking that night—our mother— yet this memory, calm amid 1968’s riotous tumult, slept faint as dawn’s ghostly rooster till I woke this morning and my pen found these words.