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I walked into her bedroom just as she was in the midst of playing "fashion." Her words, not mine. She had climbed up the lower level of shelves in her closet to reach the clothes on the hanger. Some were tossed to the floor. Others, she had laid gently down. As I watched her, I remembered the times as a little girl when my mom let me have her old dresses. I didn't know how to sew, but I glued the hell outta pieces of fabric and abandoned beads to transform the dresses it into something far more desirable...for me. I sat on her bed and watched her pick and choose. I said, "You know, I wanted to be a fashion designer." Recalling an attempt at the art institute and a huge life change called Oscar. She replied, "I wanted to be a fashion designer too." "You still can, my girl. You can do whatever you choose." And as if that was all the encouragement she will ever need, as if it is all that easy, and that my permission meant everything in the world, she looked at me and said, "Oh thank you mom." You, Ophelia Rose, are forever welcome.

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