How
we hated Lamonts,
my
aunt and I,
as
her sister—my mother,
her
mother—my grandma,
shopped
and tried
on
somebody else’s
soon-to-be
clothes.
It
was the smell,
we
said,
or
the way
it
made us feel
confined
or
defined
by
dress or bra or shoe.
And
leave to breathe,
fairly
sprinting to her car,
in
search of that bright patch of sky
that
agreed
we
were already enough.
© 2019
Jennifer Wagner