No
Place Like Home
There’s nothing quite like a new bra. Not a wonder bra, a
fancy bra, a fantasy bra, a lacy bra, or even a racy bra—I’m
talking about a simple, straightforward, fulfilling garment. Some
might argue that a new bra is uncomfortable, or in fact, that
any bra is uncomfortable, but not I.
A new bra
is supple, soft, and shiny. I become a new woman when I don one
fresh off the rack. A new bra is an uplifting experience. I am
a sinner lost in the darkness who is restored, raised up, and
now walks in the brilliant light of faith. I am a crooked old
politician who has embraced reform, who has decided to straighten
up and fly right. A new bra gives me a $25 lease on life.
But, what
do I do with the old bra? It is limp, frayed, and graying. It
is a sad sight to behold; misshapen and so transfigured from its
once-glorious self.
Despite its
pitiable condition, each ancient, wrinkled, and useless bra sits
in one of my sacred household piles among its rejected companions.
I can’t seem to part with them. I don’t want to wear
them anymore. They have been replaced by younger models, and I
can’t imagine passing such intimate and well-worn pieces
on to others. Of course, I could throw them away, but tossing
out these old familiar friends feels a bit like putting my elder
relatives, the one who have lost their sheen, into nursing homes.
Perhaps I'm
obsessed with the idea of home. These bras, though worn and tattered,
were once home to me.
Dot
Brovarney