Anne and I wore our red velvet dresses
and the Christmas corsages Dad brought home

in boxes and put in the refrigerator until today
when they were pinned on our winter wool coats.

We walk in the store filled with music, and there it is–
the escalator, my favorite part.

I bend down, touch the shiny ridges
of the moving stairs. The hem of my dress

is snagged at the top. My father grabs
my waist with both hands, yanks me back.

The dress rips a jagged bite, the velvet one
my mom finished that morning, making me

stand too long, her sitting on the floor with pins
in her mouth, saying, Turn, just a little

without moving her lips, that dress – ruined.
I cry for both of us.