White-gloved and perched on the rear hood
of the chrome-hubbed convertible gleaming
white in the Lake Huron sun, I am one of
three girls chosen to be Vestal virgins to
the altar of white, Diana’s maidens to the
Homecoming Queen. Our white-stockinged
legs and polished white shoes brood
statuesque over the rear red leather. Our
white eye-let shivering. Our white ribbons
flagging. Our white-gloved hands waving
and waving and waving to the white faces
lining the tree-lined streets lining this small
Scottish town.
. .But the hand inside my glove
is brown and the face peeping from the
white-ruffled neck of my summer white
dress is a beautiful hazelnut brown. This is
my hometown. My legs: two severe batons
majorette the hot red leather. Even after
the crowds thin out and the breeze off the
lake picks up. Even after the bagpipes’
keen moan fades. Out past the protestant
oaks, out past the immigrants’ bell-less
church with its small brick frame, its gravel
driveway, out towards the cornfields, when
only Lake Huron with its lull of tall grasses
and only the perennial pines wave back, I
am still waving.
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