My mom reminded me of the year I dressed up like a cat for Halloween. I remembered it well since I have the photograph of me as a cat that year. It was taken at my parent’s old house, the one behind the galleria, and I must have been sixteen or seventeen years old. I stood in my black dress with the cat ears she slid on a headband. My arms were slightly pulled from my torso as if pulled up by strings. The signifier though, the one that rooted me to the actual time and place, was the white and black swatch that circled my left wrist. I remembered how much I admired the way she could sew and how she wore a gold watch with Dr. Scholl shoes and bell bottoms jeans and let me watch old school Hollywood movies on the weekend and how despite making asparagus and brussels sprouts for dinner, I hoped to one day be just like her.
