But each morning I plan to visit you, I open my wardrobe and I push all my garments aside (even the less feminine ones) and I reach for the same baggy turquoise sweater. I have practised all of my rebuttals and I have practised them again. I have played out the scenario in my head, the recoiling, the embarrassment, the disgust, the anger, the shame. The way the fabric folds up as it tickles the carpet forces people to circle around me, and although I am met mostly with looks of affectionate ridicule, they are looks nonetheless. Nonetheless, I like what it does to a room. I have only worn it twice and both times I have taken photographs in the mirror and then deleted them the next morning. It is a ridiculous garment by any measure and sometimes I wonder if I even like the way I look in it. It is a long burgundy floor-length gown with padded shoulders, a high neck, and ruffles down the font. I have often fantasised about wearing one when I come to visit you at the nursing home. Mostly I wear them on nights out, or at home, around my friends. Not very often and certainly not as often as I would like. And since you aren’t willing to help, can’t you at least be afraid for me?’ You were there long before I took the form of a.
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