Her Mother’s Robe

Her mother’s robe drags across the floor, but she continues sashaying around the room. She grabs a handful of satin fabric in order to maneuver from the closet to the vanity. Spinning around to face the mirror, she stumbles in a pair of Michael Kors that make her feet look microscopic. The name Michael Kors means nothing to her, but she loves them anyway. Blonde knots poke out of her waist-length locks, but she ignores the brush sitting on the vanity and goes straight for the accessories. The lanyard she made at camp fits with her Nike shorts like puzzle pieces. The robe and heels look out of place on her, and not just because of the size. Despite the askew outfit, her smile is fit for a model, her innocence molded into paparazzi-ready dimples. She struts around the runway once more, the stage a baby blue bedroom with a myriad of puppy posters as her endearing fans. A stuffed orca critiques her fashion from the edge of the bed. He doesn’t react, but she blows him a kiss anyway.

Someday she won’t want to play model anymore. Someday beauty won’t be a game to show her babysitter. She’ll care about someone’s opinion, and it won’t be a plush whale. But that’s not today. She hangs her mother’s robe back in the closet. She’ll wear it again in a few years when it fits her.

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