My daughterâs high school prom fell on a gorgeous spring day. The air was fresh and damp with the scent of lilacs and new life springing from the ground. While posing for photos, the breeze made the skirts of the girlsâ gowns sway, a hint at the dancing that would happen later.
My daughter, tall and slender, stands at the apex of most of the group pictures. She is taller than the other girls, so she tips her head slightly, not out of shyness, but in deference to the height difference. She is as elegant as Iâve ever seen her. The dress she is wearing, she told me, makes her feel beautiful. I can see it, too; the way her shoulders are back, the way her eyes sparkle, the way she delicately lifts her skirt to navigate stairs, revealing her strappy black shoes.
Her dress is a stunning brocade gown, aquamarine, the color of a shimmering ocean. All the other girls, giggling and happy, are wearing dresses of similar rich jewel tones, a sea of blues and greens.
Watching my daughter as she is about to go through this high school rite of passage, I see flashbacks of her as a toddler. She loved to dress up. She skipped and twirled through the house saying, âLook Mommy â Iâm a princess!â Even as her brothers wrestled each other on the ground, emitting guttural sounds, she flitted above them, existing in her very own princess realm where she no doubt heard a fanfare whenever she walked into a room â all evil was vanquished and goodness prevailed.
My mental time machine jolts back further to my own senior prom, 1992. My date, Trevor, was a kind boy, and we had just finished performing together in the high school production of âOklahoma.â Trevor was handsome and tall, something I was acutely appreciative of, being a tall girl myself. As an immature teen lacking self-confidence, I always suspected he asked me to the dance out of pity. More than three decades later, I stand by that assessment. Nevertheless, he took pity on me in the kindest way possible and we had a fun, memorable night.
What I remember most about that night was the dress. My mother, an accomplished seamstress, had designed and made my dress by hand. It was black lace with a handkerchief hemline. Mom cut out individual pieces of the lace and painstakingly sewed each piece to the edge of the elegant off-the-shoulder neckline, giving it a lovely silhouette. It fit me perfectly due to Momâs careful measuring. All in all, I felt like a princess. We danced the night away to the Cranberries and the Cure.
Our high school cafeteria was transformed into a dance hall for the night. Paper streamers were strewn across every surface. Hand-painted murals created by the Art Club lined the walls, plywood panels swimming with fish, anemone, and coral, draped with fishnet. The theme: Under the Sea. We danced to the popular song, âEverything I Do, I Do it For You.â The way Bryan Adams sang the lyrics with full-throated pleading in his hoarse, emphatic voice, there was no doubt that he meant every word. I wasnât sure what he was doing, but I was darn sure he was doing it for me.
When we visited my parentsâ house a few months ago, my beautiful black prom dress was in the closet, carefully washed and hung on a hanger, protected with a plastic cover. I knew my Mom was hoping my daughter would fall in love with the dress as much as I had, and I guess I hoped that a little bit, too.
Just touching the fabric, I remembered the swish it made as I walked in it. Looking at the tiny waistline, I realized I would never again have the chance to squeeze once more into this dress. That window of opportunity had closed.
But my daughter! She looks so much like I did at that age, and we urged her to try it on. Her slender frame slid easily into the dress. My Mom and I both gasped at the sight of her. We stood there, three generations of women: my daughter, wearing her motherâs dress, made by her grandmother.
Youâre beautiful, I whispered under my breath.
She thanked me, and said the dress was pretty. But I saw it in her eyes. They didnât sparkle when she wore my prom dress. I realized I had been holding my breath, hoping she would insist on wearing it to her own prom, but I knew immediately that wasnât to be. My prom dress, sewn by hand under lamplight in the wee hours of the night, was made for me. It held magic for that girl in 1992, a girl I hardly recognized anymore, who had big dreams for her future and only a faint idea of how to get there.
The two dresses hang in the closet side by side now: my prom dress and hers, washed and protected, suspended in air waiting patiently to be asked to go to a second dance. My daughter returned from her prom exhausted and smiling. I hope it is a night that years from now, she will look back on fondly. I hope the night held a special magic that was reserved only for her. I hope she felt like a princess.
