| On Saturday nights, my mother   took off her blue jeans, put on a red satin dress with a wide circle skirt that swished when she danced.   Or, a black brocade sheath dress with a peplum of white lace and rhinestone earrings that jangled like ice cubes.   Or, to backyard parties, a pink waffle pique with a sewn-in brassiere and laces up the back.   In springalator high heels, open at the toe, she twirled across the patio onto the grass,   unwinding like a bolt of organza, her Tabu perfume simmering in the torchlight, she danced   past the clothesline, past the built-in barbecue, past the ornamental fish pond, turning into herself for the night.   © by Donna Hilbert.Used with the author’s permission.
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