52 Dresses - Week 6
Just across from the white frame house, freight trains cruised past the open cornfields of Indiana. Back in the 60s, houses had space to breathe and children moved with electric energy. It was an accident when the train’s whistle blew long and hard and the sudden scream suffocated the air. Years later my cousin who was responsible for watching his younger brother, married, pressed tightly in a tuxedo, starched white above the cummerbund—his eyes midnight stars.
My paper doll is dressed in a black tuxedo waiting for his bride to arrive from Chicago. She’ll be dressed in delicate layers of white lace. Soon they will fly to Venice where the gondoliers will sing of love long into the night throughout the warm lit canals.
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