As a little girl, I would sneak into my mother’s room while she was in the shower and rummage through her drawers. I didn’t have to be sneaky around her because she was a generous woman, one who would give the world to her children if she could.
Yet, there was something spontaneous about being sneaky and being caught. I wasn’t looking for her square-shaped princess earrings or her rose-colored lipstick. I wasn’t trying to play dress-up, I was looking for one of her simple, baggy and worn T-shirts.
I would press the tarnished seams up against my body, jump on top of my parents’ bed and admire myself in the mirror, peering over one shoulder, peering over the other and, of course, checking my backside to make sure the bagginess was plenty, the holes many and the comfort just right...
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