My mother offers me the dress from her wedding to my father in 1991, and I am unsure of what to say. So, I don’t say anything.
Together, at the top of the rickety attic stairs, we rip open a dusty cardboard box to reveal a stunning satin A-line. Far from plain, beaded details and floral lace drip down the front — surprisingly intricate for a woman whose daily wardrobe primarily consists of tracksuits. The dress comes with detachable sleeves that sit off-shoulder at just the right spot to hide the “bat wings” my mother swears she had at 115 pounds.
Its beauty is from a time I still don’t understand.
I spot a red stain close to the hem at the bottom of the dress. What happened? Time or the pills made her forget. Spaghetti sauce or chicken parmesan, perhaps. For a moment, with my eyes fixed on the garment, I held the same fleeting belief as my parents once did. We can make this work. However, divorce is a bigger stain — one embedded into the fabric and no match for the best dry cleaner.
Is it wrong to entertain it as an option, or would it disturb the dust that took so long to settle?
I can already hear my aunt’s whispers as she sees me in my mother’s dress through rose-colored glasses and asks where did the time go and why did she ever leave Kenny?
She will say this within earshot of my stepfather.
I can already feel my stepmother’s heartache and father’s anger as they ask why was wearing my mother’s face not enough and did I have to wear her dress too?
My existence has always warranted an apology.
Either way, it couldn’t hurt to try it on — if only I could. The tiny waistline barely slides over my hips, and the zipper hardly budges at my mother’s attempts to pull it closed, but it is hemmed perfectly to my height. As I slip the skinny straps over my broad shoulders, I watch my mother’s mouth curl up into a sad smile that badly masks her unmet expectations.
The ring on my finger feels heavier.
My mother offers me the dress from her wedding to my father in 1991, and it is three sizes too small. In its own way, it could not fit more perfectly.
We have a kinship, the dress and I.
We are the remnants of a lost love — and unlike the shattered crystal glasses gifted to my parents on their wedding day, we are still intact.
In another universe, I step into my mother’s wedding dress, and the zipper does not fight her fingers on its way up along my spine. Perhaps I stick with ballet or gymnastics, and I do not take pills. Perhaps my father is in the other room watching the news. He is there, but not present. As my mother looks at me in the dress, her smile has a different touch of sadness.
In this universe, we do not need to be worn like a mistake.
My rusty old sewing shears meet the largest seam in the skirt. Faux pearls spill from ripped threads like loose teeth out of my seven-year-old mouth that kept secrets better than it kept the peace.
The red stain is cut away.
Scrap fabric gently falls like my father’s tears the first time I ever saw him cry, sitting on the stoop of what was once my grandfather’s rental properties and the place he called home after taking off his wedding ring. I ask him if he still loves my mother.
The train is stitched into a new bodice in a size 16, wrapping comfortably around my torso.
It takes work, but the dress becomes unrecognizable — beautifully different, sewn into a new shape, a new style fit for a new time.
I wear it to the rehearsal dinner, where the whole fractured family was in attendance.
My stepfather leans over and kisses my mother’s cheek.
My father whispers a joke into my stepmother’s ear.
My fiancé puts his arm around my shoulders and doesn’t need to say a word.
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Kirsten Magas is a poet and writer based in Philadelphia, where she lives with her loving partner and snuggly bunnies. She has previously served as an editor for Peach Velvet Magazine, which published issues biannually between 2018 to 2021. Her work has been featured in West Chester University’s literary magazines, Literati and Daedalus, as well as the international literary magazine Beyond Words.
© 2025, Kirsten Magas
Halfway Down the Stairs 