Navy Blue Dickies by Jennifer Anne Gordon

​Photo by Eric Prouzet on Unsplash

I have oil stains on my frayed hem.

On Fridays I smell sour, metallic. On Saturdays I smell like Tide detergent. On Sundays my fabric grows stiff. On good days, after vegetable picking and an early lunch, I smell like sunshine and air when I am hung outside. The family is at Clam King, and the little girl eats grilled cheese. I hate it because I am not there, I am not being worn, I am the workday armor. I am not needed at Clam King.

I am outside a house, hanging in the sun, dancing in the wind as if I were not strong at all, as if I were beautiful. I am not made for sunshine; I am not made for dancing. I am armor, and I feel forgotten. I see the man when he comes home. Beige pants. Pleated and embarrassing. He pretends he does not need armor; he pretends that he can wear loafers and laugh over lunch.

He will wear me again soon, but I don’t recognize him without me. I see questioning postures and a laugh that doesn’t meet his eyes. Those days of beige pant performances were like a school play where everyone forgets their lines. The little girl cries. The mommy gets drunk on bloody marys and the man is not wearing the right costume.

During summer they take day trips. I go to the beach, I am navy blue, and hot in the sun, unable to soak in the saltwater. I am a bog, I am a shield, I am armor. The little girl looks at me funny, so dark against his pale skin. He takes off his shirt but slouches his shoulders. Tucks himself in and under an umbrella. I did not get removed. Not here.

The little girl hates me, she doesn’t understand why I am not a pair of Bermuda shorts, with bright florals that scream and laugh in the waves. Sea mist and boardwalks. She does not know why I am not a swimsuit. Saltwater and chafed thighs.

The little girl crawls on the sand, puts her head under the green nylon chair, she stares at my navy blue the way it punches out of the spaces in the fabric. Both a blindfold and a bullet.

She hates me.

She hates me because she has never seen her father’s knees. She hates me because she has heard the words shrapnel, she has heard the words scars, but she doesn’t know what that means, she doesn’t know what I protect. She doesn’t know I am armor with oil-stained hems, I fight an invisible battle, an invisible war.

I cover legs that didn’t walk for months, I cover legs with wounds that never quite heal, wounds that are wrapped tight, wounds that smell like almonds, and swamp water.

She is a little girl; I am armor.

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Jennifer Anne Gordon (she/they)  is an award-winning horror author (Kindle Award Best Horror Novel 2020, Lit Nastie Best Short Story 2023 and more) Podcast host (Vox Vomitis) and essayist with works in Lumina, Miniskirt, Wildscape, Horror Tree, Nerd Daily, and more. She is represented by Talcott Notch Literary and is a member of HWA and MWA. www.jenniferannegordon.com