Mother's Aren't

For me, it all began when I was four. It was my birthday.

"Anything," my mother said.

Let's see, it was white and shimmery and kitteny and prideful and sinful and wonderful too.

I froze in my tracks. The passerbys whizzed past by my mom and me. I stared and stared.

"Mommy?"

"Yes, Angel?"

"Lookie."

Right off, she couldn't make out what all my fuss was about.

"Pretty," I pointed.

"Oh."

We stared together, through our ghosts staring back at us, into the big front window of Fullerton's department store.

"Let's see," my mom said. "There's satin and lace and ribbons and tulle. Yelp. I'd say that dress has pretty much got it covered, alright."

My mother knew everything.

"Want it." I pointed, not daring to take my eye off it.

"Whatever for, Love?"

"Please."

I was too young then to understand that look in her face.

"No."

"No?"

"Boys don't wear dresses."

I got a truck.

That day I learned disappointment.

It was only much later that I learned, "Mothers aren't always right."