Just Right by Rachel Turney, bourbon with one or two ice cubes

When I was a child, I got new shoes every year on the day before Easter. My feet would be measured on the little metal device. Then the selection would begin. The weekend before I would have been shopping for my Easter dress so the shoes would be the final part of the perfectly matched ensemble. My mom would tie the laces tight or fasten the buckles and tell me to walk around. Then she would feel where my toe was in the shoe in the front, making sure they fit. She would tap and squish the heel and sides to see that they hugged my feet just right.

I relished this bit of attention from my mother. I had six younger siblings so the times when she held me feet in her hands and kneeled down to my level were precious moments when I was all she could see. We would purchase the shoes and I would lay out my floral dress and neat new Mary Janes the night before the big Easter Sunday.

I was so excited to show off my new dress and gleaming shoes that it was hard to sleep. By about seven the rest of the house would wake and mom would start doing our hair one by one. I wanted big curls like hers and she yanked and twirled little dagger like plastic rollers with a hot coil center into my mousy brown hair, which I imagined would look just like her long auburn tendrils when she finished.

We were always late to church. Sometimes I sat in the car sweating for half an hour waiting for my siblings to come on. I had a small palm-sized bible in navy that complimented my outfit and very impractical baby blue buckled shoes with a little heel. I looked fabulous. My hair stretched high to heaven. I sang the hymns with the confidence of a beauty queen and looked over at my mom by my side, the coveted spot, as the pastor droned on and on.

By the time we got home my hair was flat and my new shoes were invariably scuffed. Mom would be busy making dinner or sitting in her lounge chair in the yard with her little glass of bourbon, one or two ice cubes, talking to my father. The magic of Easter morning would vanish and I would have to wait through summer, fall, and winter to be taken to the shoe store again where mom would help me find shoes that fit just right. 

About the author

Dr. Rachel Turney is an educator and teacher trainer in Colorado. Her poems and prose are published in The Font Journal, Five Fleas, Nap Lit, Ranger, Through Lines Magazine, Teach Write Journal and Inside Higher Ed. Blog: turneytalks.wordpress.com 

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