She rests in the corner, alone really, even though the others are there in a row with her. They are chatty. They giggle. When one returns, the row flutters with excitement as the returnee relates her experiences on the outside. But not her. She is left out of the merriment. No one even talks to her.

When the doors open, all of the others smooth wrinkles and put on their best faces. They do everything to be chosen. There are favorites. They are closest to the double doors. Others, who rarely get picked, gradually slide farther down the line. They understand that one day the doors will open. A handful will be taken from the end of the line and never return.

Some of them know they are for special occasions. They won’t be chosen often, but when they are . . . oh what tales they’ll have to tell.

To their recollection she has never been chosen. She is the only one wrapped in plastic—a kind of see-through sarcophagus. Some of them tease her, especially the red silky one. And they talk about her as if she cannot hear, as if she has no feelings. But she has her memory, one they cannot fathom in their shallow, self-centered lives.

On this day the doors open. The others primp ostentatiously. Hands rifle through them, working their way toward the corner. Her hook clears the bar. She will never forget their looks as she exits. The doors remain open. All of them watch as their owner holds her up to the little girl.

“See?” the owner says. “Hang on, let me take it out.”

Hands unzip the plastic and it slides off, falling to the floor.

How good it feels to be free.

“Oh Momma, it’s beautiful.”

“Yes, it is, isn’t it? I’d almost forgotten. I married your father in this. My mother embroidered the azaleas. Someday you will meet just the right person. And when you marry you’ll wear this dress, and it will be the happiest day of your life.”