Clothed
My mother says I don’t look like the daughter she raised. She believes
in skirts no shorter than knee-length, dresses no prettier
than typical church attire. Alone, under too-bright lights, I strip off the
ugly cargos, yank on the JNCO jeans. My legs in the reflection are a
trapezoidal tide, a perfect picture of rebellion. My body becomes a bargain:
Can I wear the strappy heels? Can I wear the dangle earrings? How many
good things do I have to do to go unreprimanded at the dinner table? My
mother says my clothes are vulgar, the way the layers tempt each other
with touch. I hug my lover’s racing jacket closer to me, a bright star
found swimming in the ocean of eBay auctions. I stitch my fingers through
the seams of sponsors: Shell and Red Bull bathe my fingers with their oily
products. I walk through the front door of my house, my mother’s eyes
ironed to my jacket. Later, she comes into my room and tells me how
cruel young love is. When I tell her all love is, I hear my voice echoing hers,
some kind of speech disorder she insists there is no treatment for. I watch
her pearl earrings slap against her skin as she stands up and exits. Later, I
dump the boy and the jacket. Everyone likes reading sob stories with
good endings. My ending was the worst thing about me. On the train
north to the city, her empty seat reminds me again and again not to touch
the poles, the handrails, the open hearts of any boy. Inside the filmy boutique,
I search for a dress the color of daughterhood. Pry open the discarded memories,
the clothes that make my mother believe I’ll be haunted. There are too many flawed
explanations as to why daughters and mothers never get along: everyone loves
to say that daughters are imperfect reflections of their mothers. But today, I’ve learned
to say no to my mother and mean it. Today, I’ve learned to stop waiting for love
that won’t come. Tomorrow, I will wear my new clothes
and walk out the front door of my mother’s heart.
in skirts no shorter than knee-length, dresses no prettier
than typical church attire. Alone, under too-bright lights, I strip off the
ugly cargos, yank on the JNCO jeans. My legs in the reflection are a
trapezoidal tide, a perfect picture of rebellion. My body becomes a bargain:
Can I wear the strappy heels? Can I wear the dangle earrings? How many
good things do I have to do to go unreprimanded at the dinner table? My
mother says my clothes are vulgar, the way the layers tempt each other
with touch. I hug my lover’s racing jacket closer to me, a bright star
found swimming in the ocean of eBay auctions. I stitch my fingers through
the seams of sponsors: Shell and Red Bull bathe my fingers with their oily
products. I walk through the front door of my house, my mother’s eyes
ironed to my jacket. Later, she comes into my room and tells me how
cruel young love is. When I tell her all love is, I hear my voice echoing hers,
some kind of speech disorder she insists there is no treatment for. I watch
her pearl earrings slap against her skin as she stands up and exits. Later, I
dump the boy and the jacket. Everyone likes reading sob stories with
good endings. My ending was the worst thing about me. On the train
north to the city, her empty seat reminds me again and again not to touch
the poles, the handrails, the open hearts of any boy. Inside the filmy boutique,
I search for a dress the color of daughterhood. Pry open the discarded memories,
the clothes that make my mother believe I’ll be haunted. There are too many flawed
explanations as to why daughters and mothers never get along: everyone loves
to say that daughters are imperfect reflections of their mothers. But today, I’ve learned
to say no to my mother and mean it. Today, I’ve learned to stop waiting for love
that won’t come. Tomorrow, I will wear my new clothes
and walk out the front door of my mother’s heart.
May / June 2023
Senna Xiang is a teen writer. Her work is published in Gasher Journal, Kissing Dynamite, Superfroot Magazine, and other lovely places. Her writing has also been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and the Adroit Prizes, and she is a 2023 YoungArts Winner in Creative Nonfiction. She was nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions 2022.
Art: Jennifer Peart. Saguaro Sun, oil on linen, 10”x8"