I found Momma’s wig and green formal in her old trunk. She’d worn them to her last birthday party at DiFranco’s. After looking in the bathroom mirror, I imagined myself on a New York stage singing her favorite numbers. I performed “My Man” and voiced every word with the sultriness of a wannabe homecoming queen and confidence of Ethel Merman on opening night. A noise startled me. Dad stood at the sink washing out his thermos. A wave of red washed over me like when he found the Fruit of the Looms I’d dyed purple. He said, No need to dress up for dinner on my account, then headed to his Barcalounger to watch the news about Nixon’s latest scandal.
Jeff Harvey lives and writes in San Diego. His work has appeared in MoonPark Review, Twin Pies, Queerlings, and Blink-Ink. Find him on Twitter @JeffHarveySD.