The Autumn Walk

I’d started with the bra that morning, standing in front of the mirror, hands slightly unsteady as I fastened the clasp at my back. It took three attempts – the hooks kept slipping – but then it was done, settled against my skin, the band snug around my ribs. I adjusted the straps, felt the gentle compression, the way it held me. Safe. Enclosed. Womanly. There was something profound in that sensation, something that made my breath catch.

The knickers came next, soft cotton that I pulled on carefully, smoothing them into place. Then the tights – those took concentration, gathering the fabric, pointing my toes, rolling them up over my calves and thighs until they sat securely at my waist. The slight resistance of the material, the way they shaped my legs, made everything feel more real, more present.

The skirt was a long flowing thing in charcoal grey, and as I stepped into it and pulled it up over my hips, zipping it at the side, I felt the fabric settle around me like water, the hem falling to just above my ankles. It swayed as I moved, brushed against the tights with a soft whisper. Then the burgundy jersey – I’d spent twenty minutes just holding it earlier, feeling the weight of wool and possibility – pulling it over my head, tugging it down, the softness enveloping my shoulders and arms.

Finally, the ankle boots. I sat on the edge of the bed to pull them on, worked the zips up slowly, hearing each tooth catch and hold. When I stood and walked to the mirror, the small heel changed my posture, lifted me slightly. And there she was – someone I’d only ever glimpsed a few times before, now whole and present and real.