My mother’s mouth is pursed, br bristling with pins. br Today she frowns in the pale sun br filtering through the sash window. br She pins and tucks, making me a dress br to fit my newly budding chest. br br I stand still, sucking in br my puppy-round tummy. br “You’ve a nice waist now, ” br says the one I still call “Mummy”. br br We can’t yet know, br but soon we shall discover br that with my grown-up body br I shall find my grown-up voice. br She will become coldly “Mother”. br I’ll struggle, break the bond, br find new clothes of my own choice, br go my way, take my risks, br put my faith in others. br br There I stand, draped in soft green, br still defined by my mother’s loving handiwork. br For fifty years that morning has been br hung in my mind’s wardrobe. br br The green dress long ago has turned to dust. br It was the last time that I felt uncomplicated trust.