The Dress

You see her, and you think,"What in the world is she wearing?" She's a grown woman, in her thirties, wearing a poofy periwinkle princess dress, complete with all the ribbons and ruffles. And this is not Disney World. This is Ohio, a Sunday morning concert in a small town. So you look at her some more and try to figure her out. She is sitting in her seat, at the end of the front row in the choir, sticking out like a lighthouse in a storm, because everyone around her is wearing black and white. She looks uncomfortable in her own skin, like she's restless. She seems to know that everyone's eyes are on her, which they are, not just because of the dress but because she is the soloist. She has a tiny nervous smile on her face; but then the music starts.
She stands. She walks to the front of the stage. She takes her stance three feet away from the microphone. She sings.
Suddenly, you forget the dress. You notice her eyes, her mouth, her long flowing hair that comes down to her waist, and more than everything else, her voice, a powerful, gutsy, strong, eccentric, lovely voice that comes out of her like an air raid siren or a whisper. She has perfect control, and all the nervous energy she displayed before is gone. The dress seems to mold itself around her.
She is the dress. She wears it because it is her.
You wonder how she can display herself so unabashedly, for all the world to see. She bares her being in the form of a ridiculous ball gown.