It was the late sixties: summer weekends of hot
pants and mini skirts, The Beatles’ White
Album, the year of the vibrating
belt exercise machine— a row of them
lined up against one wall of the beauty salon
that mother’s new friend Mila ran at the American
base. Women in capri pants slid the elastic band
around their waists or hips, turned the dial
then faced away, trying to keep a serious face
through twenty minutes of electric rippling.
Afterwards, they’d let me sit with them
to have a clear manicure of my own while they
had their full sets done. Outside, the air
still smelled of pine. They’d put on their cropped
cardigans and cat-eye sunglasses and we’d stroll
to the 19th Tee where the men were nursing
coffee or a nip of something stronger,
tapping impatient fingers on formica
or on their wristwatches. When I snagged
and broke the strap of my only pair of sandals
on a shrub, one of Mila’s many daughters said
she’d take me to the store for a replacement.
They were all so tall, so willowy;
it was easy to feel in awe. Father said
some of them had gone away to school in Europe,
knew two or three languages and more: accomplished
was the word he used. We looked through box
after box on shelves until I found a strappy
orange pair my size. Everyone always wore a slightly
amused expression— as if the merest thing
were a wonderment or could turn into a private
joke: a way to lightly wear the world in worldly.