Reigning Sequins

On the hinge of 42, I am weighing sequins.

Hole-hearted stars tingle down gowns that probably weigh nine pounds. Am I too old for this? Am I too young for this?

Am I grabbing chiffon fistfuls of 1997, pouting at the prom night I spent at my word processor?

Am I making fractals of faux futures, bedazzled by boleros for a matron of dishonor, a childless mother of the bride I wasn’t?

Am I going to be able to find something to wear to the Grand Opening?

We have raised the funds. We have built the basilica, an improbable arbor for cats with no shepherd. I have written my speech, first Corinthians in the service of crooked tails.

I have summoned my donors, who think they know me. I know them like my own memories. They are selfless and then breathless, givers given to whitewater sharing as soon as I cock my ear. They open their arms to weak whiskers. I open my life to their secret, sacred tales.

I am an accidental Development Director, but soon I will meet multitudes whose stories I shelter.

I need a gown.

I will be 42.

I want to look like Audrey Hepburn. I want to look like Jennifer Lopez. I want to look like Soul Train. I want to look like myself. I want to look this night wild in the eyes and be splendor-struck by what love wrought.

I want to redeem the mocked-up wedding that trampled the jewels. I want to look the mother of the bride in the eyes and tell her I’m home from the far country for good. I want to close my eyes and not see her standing in purple jacquard, sorrowful and scared as she saw stars fall.

I want to redeem the rosebud who potted herself across the sea. I want to tell sixteen that she should have gone to prom with bold Darius, who she didn’t really know, who called her an “elegant, inimitable woman.” He still had a shining time on the dark side of her “no.” I want to tell seventeen that she should have gone with her cacophony of innocents, that she could be Princess among a posse.

I want to redeem the gem still searching for a setting, blinking from boss to boy to reader to donor to any old assertive eyes, asking “do I shine?”

It is frizzling how much weight I gave an empty tuxedo who announced, “I choose you. You are chosen.”

It is astounding how often I would like my boss to tell me, “I am pleased. You are excellent.”

It is sizzling how readily I sausage myself into any size-empty situation that hisses, “All of these kingdoms can belong to you.”

It is bedazzling how hungrily I await an audience to tell me, “You love well. You write well. You shine well. You are safe.”

I take comfort knowing that my hero, Henri Nouwen, wore a holey cardigan like mine, insufferably needy and boundlessly tender. Now that he lives behind brocade, where every sequin is a meteor, I ask him to pray for me.

I want to reign secure behind my eyes.

I want to take back the satin and the velvet, the ballet pink and the pioneer yellow, the full wealth of worth.

I want to technicolor my castle.

It’s a bit much to ask of a gown.

It’s far too much to ask of the powers that beaded my costumes, the bosses and the boys and the readers and the donors.

It’s faithless to ask of a masquerade marriage, a polyester jingle written so I could be Bride.

It’s graceless to ask of even the mother of the bride, she who loves most, she who is still a child.

It’s not too much to ask of the Mercy that moves the stars.

I am going to be 42.

The hour is late if I let the powers weigh and measure. Too much hinges on this to let them man the drawbridge.

I will wear the sequins, heavy with pleasure. I will wear the smile all the way down to my stripes. I will embroider this night and each uncertain dawn with my whole heart, and it will be enough.

This is the grand opening. And no man can shut the door.