Photo credit: Andrea Stenson
It’s Good Friday, and I’m remembering the thick white stockings that used to come out of the drawer just once a year, every year when I was a little girl, the ones with the runs behind my knees and the crotch that kept creeping lower every year, requiring secret yanks throughout the day. That and the shiny little Mary Janes with the tiny buckles, and my mother bending over my kicking feet, struggling to get the buckle’s impossible prong into its worn hole. It’s only this weekend every year that I wear the poofy petticoat dress with its sleeves stuffed with toilet paper, because we are not real churchgoers, Christian only in the way religion gets passed down as a family inheritance...