i was nearly 3 years old, bathed in sunshine, waddling up and down the sidewalk in front of our pink house. mom must have sent me outside so she could finish getting ready. maggie was by my side, she was my companion; an old-english sheep-dog, sugar magnolia was the closest thing i had to a sibling back then. looking down at my feet, watching out for weeds pushing up through cracks in the sidewalk, my eyes fell upon not baby shoes or sandals, certainly not shiny vinyl sunday shoes, but hiking boots – the mini version of what both my parents wore. they were factory working, swing-shift enduring hippies, so naturally they dressed their only child in a similar fashion. above my chubby, dimpled knees was the white cotton hemline of my slip-dress. august was hot and sticky, so while my tender feet needed protection, the rest of my pudge was clothed in nearly sheer white cotton. it wasn’t an actual dress, but a frilly, somewhat fancy underslip. likely the slip was a rebellion against my grandmother’s instructions or an ironic nudge at tradition. ladies wear slips under their dresses, so my mama made sure i wore a slip, though that steaming day, only a slip.
the light breeze puffed up my dress and i loved the image, the beauty of white cotton fluttering in the afternoon air. if i squint my eyes, i can still see that little layla bonni blue, lost in thought, hugging maggie, skipping up and down the cracked cement path – waiting and waiting some more on my mama.
i’ve spent a good amount of time waiting on my mom, and now many days she’s waiting on me. there’s a tension between us that has had an ebb and flow for many years. we have wrinkles in our dresses, some would say.
please join me here as i unfold, unpack, and ask our saviour to help me smooth out the wrinkles, iron out the creases, and carve out space for story-telling, grace, and healing. welcome to this place. let’s journey together.