School Clothes, 1967

We went to Sears, to the Lemon Frog,
the new department for teens and preteens.
Just my mother and me,
the Sears charge card deep in her wallet.
Seventh grade would start soon,
Junior High School,
a big step.

For the first time I would have new,
store-bought clothes for school.
Not my cousin Pammy’s hand-me-downs,
or stuff from the last church rummage sale,
or even clothes my mother made,
sitting at her sewing machine
in the late afternoons,
while the little ones napped
and the soap operas spun
their dramas.

Money was tight, it always was,
new shoes for the six of us
made my father curse
when he saw the bill.
But this year, my clothes were important,
my mother insisted,
my father relented.
I didn’t even have to ask.

And so I had the set,
the maroon corduroy set:
mini skirt, bell bottoms,
even a vest.
Plus a turtleneck sweater
in maroon, brown, and cream stripes,
and a polyester blouse
in a paisley print of the same colors,
with a standup collar
and two pieces of fabric
that tied in a bow
at the base of my throat.

How grownup I felt,
how fashionable, how tended –
such a wealth of newness.