1974
I found the veil in the dumpster behind my dad’s art studio; brand new and still in the box. Like a little boy in his Superman’s cape, I wore it everywhere. It was crisp and white with a pearl headband to keep it in place. A veil it seems really goes with any outfit, flowered sundress and purple clogs for day, red keds and jeans for play, or curled up for a nap with the cat. I don’t know when I stopped wearing it but I don’t think I have ever stopped playing make believe.
I got married when I was six and I’ve been married ever since, but I’ve never had a husband. Like a little girl, playing house, I wake up every morning ready to iron his work shirt and pack his lunch. He doesn’t even exist, my imaginary husband. I make the bed and fluff the pillows. I always cook dinner for two. I don’t have a husband. I don’t have a family.
I am still a child.