There was an advertisement in the Daily Mirror
picturing a beautiful, modern skirt.
Celebrations of the Queen’s coronation
would be held in the village school in summer,
and the skirt would be perfect,
so I mail ordered, with Mother’s permission.

The skirt arrived, and it was indeed, perfect.
A full circle of tissue-fine taffeta in
silver with fine black tracery.
I spent the next few weeks in a giddy
excitement at the splendor of this garment,
and torture of what to wear with it that would
complement its beauty.

Coronation day arrived, and I wore the skirt
with a deep blue blouse and my navy suede shoes.
I felt regal as I walked into the schoolroom.
My friends commented, and I received a smile
from the Reverend Robinson.
The skirt twirled light as sunbeams
as we danced the Gay Gordons. My partner
was dreamy Christopher, just home
from the Westminster boy choir school.

I wore the skirt again, to go shopping
with Mother on market day.
This time Mother didn’t really approve, but didn’t stop me.
The day was sunny and calm, and I spent my allowance
on a black elastic belt with a silver buckle.
We caught the bus to go home.

Downstairs was crowded because of the market,
so we must climb upstairs.
College boys filled the seats at the back, so we
took a bench in front.
It was hot up there on the top deck but someone
opened a window, which brought a welcome breeze.

Mother got up to ring the bell for our stop,
I rose as well and the breeze caught my tissue-taffeta
skirt and began ballooning it’s beautiful circle.
I caught it in horror and sat down quickly, with visions
of silver fabric swirling above my head.
My mother’s sweet mood vanished.
Her voice and her words dug deep as she
called me to come, and I felt all eyes on me.
Somehow I managed to gather the skirt tightly around
my knees and hobble my way through the aisle
to the steps, hearing college boy snickers.

Mother jeered as we left the bus, saying she knew the
skirt had been a mistake, and kept it up as we
walked to the house. Neighbors in their gardens
looked up from their chores but knew my mother
and quickly turned away.
I waited for her to unlock the door, then ran
up to my room, to discard the taffeta skirt.
Suddenly the dull, sack colored wool of my
school uniform was the happiest garment
I could imagine.