I am wearing a puffy red frock with layers of velvet and netting, and small bows line the waistline like macaroni shells on Christmas ornaments. My mother has spent half an hour this morning rubbing lotion all over my arms, legs, wrists, and hands ensuring that my eczema doesn’t flare up while I am at Kindergarten. Whenever my mother starts walking faster, my five small fingers loosen their grip on her one index, the Cetaphil acting as an infantile motor oil. The greasy coating of my mother’s protection lingers, calming me throughout the morning. My stomach is full of Honey Nut Cheerios and peeled apple slices. On my mouth, my mother has spread some of her red lipstick with her fingers at my behest, never showing me my reflection in her compact to delay the realization that my baby lips are barely colored. I take her word for it, though. I am the loveliest girl in Ms. Ruth’s class. I am wearing rainbow stockings with white ballet flats, and later when I scrape my knees on the playground mulch and see the fabric tear, my heart will break.
A homage to “The First Day” from Edward P. Jones’s Lost in the City (27).
Siri Ranganath 