My good friend Alicia was packing up the U-Haul, taking the things she loved and leaving most of it behind. She tasked me with going through her closet, filling donation bags, throwing out the things that couldn't be donated. I took a few things for my daughter: a pink scarf, a frilly shirt, a skirt, a sweater. And I took one thing for me: a bright green kaftan, one size fits all. Maybe it would fit. I liked the color.
Later, I texted Alicia that I had grabbed the kaftan. "Is it the green one?" she asked. "If so, it was hand-batiked on St. Kitts! I LOVE this for you!"
I laughed. Of course it was hand-batiked on St. Kitts. I love Alicia dearly, but she and I have lived very different lives.
But I told her "YES!" and she replied with a heart.
I pulled the kaftan over my head once, later in the week, to make sure it really was "one size fits all" and not just "one size fits some." It was big enough to fit me, flowing down to the floor. I looked at myself in the mirror. Where would I wear such a thing? I have one other kaftan that I love, but I've never drummed up the courage to wear it in public. I'm a cargo pants and hoodies girl, not a wearer of kaftans.
But last night, as I was pulling my sweaty, dirty sweats off after working in the yard all day, I couldn't handle any more clothing scratching at my skin. I saw the kaftan out of the corner of my eye. Why not? All I was going to do was fold laundry. Why not wear the kaftan?
It had these long ties hanging down the inside, dangling on the floor. I was stumped. I flipped it the other way, but that was decidedly inside-out. The ties belonged on the inside.
So I slipped it over my head, and then realized that the ties were meant to tie around my waist, anchoring the top of the kaftan to my chest. I tied them in a bow behind my back.
And then I looked in the mirror and realized:
I AM A FUCKING GODDESS.
It was gorgeous. It was more than gorgeous. I was gorgeous. I don't think I've felt that beautiful in a decade.
I floated downstairs and folded laundry in my goddess kaftan, hand-batiked on St. Kitts.
I don't know where I'll ever wear it; maybe it will become my folding-laundry kaftan, and I will become an ironic domestic goddess, just for a few hours every week.
I don't think I've ever felt that I deserved a kaftan, hand-batiked on St. Kitts. I could never imagine myself in something so bold, so beautiful.
Before now.
