I watched with studied reverence as she prepared for her day. My little girl fascination for her morning ritual set in about the time she pulled on the latex girdle with garter belts attached and then proceeded to toil with hosiery that snapped into place. Once dressed there was the laborious makeup process and finally the finished touch of black patent leather stiletto pumps.
With preparation completed we were on our way to our required destinations. For my mother, as a single woman with one daughter, this meant heading off to work in an office while I would spend my time between daycare and preschool. There were no men in her life at that time, just she and I on our own and I liked it best that way.
As we walked along I fell in behind taking on the cadence of her high heeled feet as they hit the bricks of the street. Click, click, click, click-click. Click, click, click, click-click, we marched in our daily brisk parade. I believed that my mother's rhythmic stride reflected her inward confidence and personal direction. I followed along in those steps and that belief until my early adolescence shattered the illusion for both of us.
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