Over the span of forty-some odd years, Margo's thin belt took a long slow drift upward from waist, to lower-rib cage to stomach to just an inch below the breasts where it finally came to anchor.
There is no telling what the belt was supposed to hold. Margo's polyester dresses were sober of pleats and flounces. The belt was no match for any kind of serious flesh. Whatever needed to be held was more ephemeral than cloth or belly fat, more slippery also. It had to be watched and polished with habit and discipline.
The belt was part of a uniform that also included flat laced-up shoes, thick brown hoses held by a garter and mysterious knit undergraments that were put out to dry in the privacy of the cellar where they could be shielded from the curiosity of neighbors and little children (me included).
As a piece of outerwear, the belt held a special place as the finishing touch to Margo's outfits: the cherry on top, the accessory that declared her fit to be seen in company, acceptable to the world. Beltless, she was either an household item wandering about the house in her nightshirt, or an uneasy vacationer in one piece black swimsuit, dipping a timid toe in seawater. Either way, she was uncomfortable, anxious to get into her real clothes, tighten herself back into place.
But not too tight. Whenever a belt would threating the delicate balance between comfort and propriety, Margo would sit at the dining room table to restore order in the world. She would punch a new belt hole with her scissor tips, round the hole with a fork tooth and work the buckle through the hole to smooth the edges as best she could. It took several weeks for the new hole to fit. She never seemed to mind.
She was patient. She preferred order and the safety of the loop around her body.
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