Just Like My Mother

I dreamed that I was my mother, last night. Draping a sari in front of the long mirror, encased by clouds of talcum powder, and grown-up perfume that only she was allowed to use.
The sari was beautiful, if a little too stiff for my frame. But as I stood, sweaty from all the pleating, pouting at myself in dissatisfaction, you reached over my shoulder for the talcum powder. And whispered "Let's not go" into the crook of my neck, making me giggle and forget about my reflection.

I dreamed I was my mother, last night. Walking into a protocol-drenched gathering, smiling politely at seniority, and grinning with camaraderie at everyone else. The difference between her and me was the outfit next to me. I don't know what colours non-official parties see more of, I only know my whites, blacks, and olive greens. I don't know which colours you wear, but I'm guessing irony plays out here... There's only one out of the three that I grimaced at; the blues were never blue enough, the lines never strong enough... You had to be... After all, you wore wings.

Standing next to you, sipping demurely at a single drink for the evening, discussing how consumer markets and audiences were changing, talking about tech & convergence, I dreamed I became my mother. Only difference is, she didn't have a vastly connected, dynamic, scary world to discuss and take down. But she took on and took down her own world in context, and still does.

I dreamed I was my mother, last night. Proudly wearing my achievements on my sleeve, and you on my arm. Fixing your cummerbund in place, fussing with a sari that just wouldn't sit tight, and coming home to someone in the mirror who I could be proud of, with someone on my arm who I am proud of. Holding my own in every conversation, walking home at the end of the night as someone my mother would be proud of.

Because the sari stayed in place, and the head remains high.