The Pluck

My great-grandma had one evil habit.

Sewing.

If she got hold of clothing.

Forget it.

It was done.

There were no exceptions.

Even her own.

Brand new dresses?

Torn.

Brand new aprons?

Modified and torn.

When I was 10, 

I was sent to El Salvador for summer break.

Along with a dozen brand new flowered briefs.

Skirts and dresses because, according to me,

I was now a ‘Miss’.

One look at my briefs,

And my great-grandma knew.

The elastic was wrong.

The elastic was weak.

She took her scissors to the dozen,

and replaced it with black elastic cord.

The same kind you use for Chinese jump rope.

Every brief elastic fastened

by a double knot and nothing more.

It didn’t matter.

The neighborhood kids were calling.

Today’s game was jumping rope.

I wore a pink denim skirt.

A white blouse.

Modified briefs.

And a flirty smile.

The smile for the benefit of Fabrizzio.

The hot boy swinging the jump rope.

It was my turn to jump in.

Easy peasy.

One…

Two…

Three…

When I felt a “pluck” under my skirt.

And watched my underwear plunge to my feet.

I looked down.

I looked up.

Kids were roaring.

Fabrizzio was staring.

I tried to figure out

how to bend down

without exposing

what little privacy I had left.

I chose to shuffle my feet.

Sideways like a crab.

Ten feet felt like a mile.

Until I was able to shut the door.

And cry.