Sure! She was striking, to say the least.
In her dark blue suit, white shirt, and crisp tight skirt.
Her whimsical pigtail puffed up on the top of her head
Where she placed her painful cardboard wired stewardess hat.
She lived at the Barbizon Hotel,
Where her friends going to modeling school
Taught her how to walk in four-inch heels.
Later in life, she would wobble through old age
From the spinal injuries of aimless bumping drinks on trays.
She did not want to marry, for that she was sure.
Her Southern Baptist family were responsible in a way.
Sisters and brothers afraid of the world were stitched together
In church like a fine patchwork quilt made from old rags.
She would send them postcards from India and China, Africa and Paris, and London.
“What a tragedy!” She was thought of in church.
She did not mind their disdain and oddly felt a certain comfort in it.
She had so little time to think, her head literally in the clouds.
Once in a while, her little sister would steal her postcards,
Lying in the sun, she would look in a hypnotic trance at the dancing girls from Bali.
Their painfully shy eyes and stilted heads adorned with golden jewelry.
Her mother made sure to throw out the ones from Africa where proud
Warrior women stood naked amongst the tourists.
But her little sister was curious and stole them. Captivated by their white teeth and huge smiles.
Back in New York, The Pan Am Building reigned over Park Avenue.
How proud she was to have understood her need to see the world.
She carefully rolled her little bundle of dresses and skirts, makeup, and Souvenirs into a tiny little bag that she dragged behind her through each country, its terminals, its windy corridors, and taxi cabs.
Her snowy skin and blue eyeshadow got her many compliments from
The men waiting for their drinks in their first-class seats.
But she did not mind….she did not mind at all….she was free!!
Victoria Haas is a writer living in New York.