There was no greater bliss than shopping at Nordstroms.
A rose marble floor was veined with white and gold, and plush burgundy seats seemed the closest thing to a queen's throne my seven year old self had ever dreamed. Polished gold railings gleaming impeccably under white lights. I spent half my time not looking for school clothes at the summer's end sale, but running my fingers over heavy velveteen and scratchy polyester lace.
The store here is smaller, less pretensious. Not the palace I remember, but nostalgia's pang fades after the first realization. The floor is tiled in black and white, not stone, and the gentle waters of voice aren't as deferential as they were before. The escalators still rise, though, raising me above the hum of the first floor passerbys. The clothes are gathered in bright bunches of fabric around a steel stem like the flower beds in my mother's garden.
Saleswomen dash around, bustling their ways into purchases. Long, slender nails tap jackets, recommending them in breathy tones that normally fall only from a lover's lips. I like to wander on my own, indulging in the tempatation that haunted me eleven years ago, to just touch. The fabric is different now-- more fragile, edged with falls of lace and rhinestones. Marilyn Monore smiles at me from a silk-screened t-shirt, her blonde hair casually rifled with faux diamonds, and I wonder what Kara would say about the red daisy pants I stumbled on.
European chic, thin linen pants that a pen viciously marked down to fifteen dollars. The dressing rooms are built solely on illusion-- I can't help but wonder if they could blow away from me in a dandelion crowd with half a second. A blouse that claims to be tango red, but it's a comfortable sort of crimson, like fall holidays. There's no passion in this silken spun shirt, but it wraps itself around me sweetly, knowing that I could no more turn away this dear fancy than a golden puppy. Dark grey sweater, v-necked down to a level that flirts with an edge, but doesn't dare sink into danger. Forest green in the same style, but the cotton seems so much more unassuming.
I think that seven year old girl stayed close to my heart, and found her way into the shallow waters of delight today.
A rose marble floor was veined with white and gold, and plush burgundy seats seemed the closest thing to a queen's throne my seven year old self had ever dreamed. Polished gold railings gleaming impeccably under white lights. I spent half my time not looking for school clothes at the summer's end sale, but running my fingers over heavy velveteen and scratchy polyester lace.
The store here is smaller, less pretensious. Not the palace I remember, but nostalgia's pang fades after the first realization. The floor is tiled in black and white, not stone, and the gentle waters of voice aren't as deferential as they were before. The escalators still rise, though, raising me above the hum of the first floor passerbys. The clothes are gathered in bright bunches of fabric around a steel stem like the flower beds in my mother's garden.
Saleswomen dash around, bustling their ways into purchases. Long, slender nails tap jackets, recommending them in breathy tones that normally fall only from a lover's lips. I like to wander on my own, indulging in the tempatation that haunted me eleven years ago, to just touch. The fabric is different now-- more fragile, edged with falls of lace and rhinestones. Marilyn Monore smiles at me from a silk-screened t-shirt, her blonde hair casually rifled with faux diamonds, and I wonder what Kara would say about the red daisy pants I stumbled on.
European chic, thin linen pants that a pen viciously marked down to fifteen dollars. The dressing rooms are built solely on illusion-- I can't help but wonder if they could blow away from me in a dandelion crowd with half a second. A blouse that claims to be tango red, but it's a comfortable sort of crimson, like fall holidays. There's no passion in this silken spun shirt, but it wraps itself around me sweetly, knowing that I could no more turn away this dear fancy than a golden puppy. Dark grey sweater, v-necked down to a level that flirts with an edge, but doesn't dare sink into danger. Forest green in the same style, but the cotton seems so much more unassuming.
I think that seven year old girl stayed close to my heart, and found her way into the shallow waters of delight today.