To Cinderella on Her Wedding Day

Dear Cinderella,

We bought a pumpkin after you left

But it did not swell or expand

No matter how much we prayed over it
And begged it to bloom

Another disappointment
In what has become
A life of grounded expectations

Mother is cruel to us now

And tells us we are not her daughters

She says you were her only real daughter

This is coming from the hurt in her heart

A hurt that exists because you have not invited her—or us

To your royal wedding

Also, birds continue to fly ‘round the house

Leaving us to wonder if you’ve bewitched us

In some way

Using powers we never knew you had

Such as turning mice into coachmen

And tattered rags into evening gowns

What a strange girl you are

And what a strange story you have

If only to have a story like that for ourselves

Rather than just be part of one
Characters who live on wallpaper
And peel off when they're not needed

Mother says no one will remember us when we die

But that they will remember you

And your Prince

And the struggles you faced

Because of us

She leaves out the struggles she supplied

Because she is getting older

And her memory is failing her faster
Than even her body can

The day she reaches Heaven

She’ll be asked to account for all she's done

To innocent souls like you

And we imagine she will have a very hard time of it

A very hard time indeed

Whereas we were just children ourselves

And took our cues from her

The woman who was supposed to guide us

Towards good Christian character

Mother says one day when they tell your story

They will not include all three of us in it

Because three stepsisters is an unruly number
And two will be much more manageable

For children’s books and the like

I wonder which one of us they will leave behind

Now that you’re gone

We try to be more like you

And inspire others to trust us

They way they trusted you

But no matter how much we beseech them

The little mice won’t wear their hats anymore

And no fairies appear in the garden

To offer us advice

Or do our tailoring

The house is filthy

Mother howls at us from the top of the stairs

To scrub the way you scrubbed

To dust the way you dusted

To mop and sweep and vanquish the dirt

The way you did

But we have no great skill at cleaning

Snickering at others

Mocking our inferiors
And laughing at people who fall and hurt themselves

--These are the strengths we were born with

Not keeping house

And being happy for kind people

When things go well for them

Oh, we try to be glad for you, Cinderella
Truly we do

But when we try to smile it’s as though our lips won’t part

And our eyes won’t brighten

And our souls rekindle themselves with the fires of envy

And resentment

It is no way to live, darling stepsister

But it is the only way we know how

We find ourselves

Drifting past 'Happily Ever After'

Into the darkness

Of 'To Be Continued'

Late at night

We hear Mother crying in her room

Asking why she was cursed

With three stupid daughters

And a stepdaughter

Who may one day forgive her

But will surely never love her

We sit on the kitchen steps

Huddled together for warmth

Since the fires never stay lit for very long anymore

Our once pretty dresses

Are ripped and torn

From having to scrub and mop in them

Our feet ache

From the long walks we take to the castle

Hoping one day you’ll receive us

And knowing you never will

As we walk back home each day

We sing a little song to ourselves

And try to lift each other’s spirits

But above us the birds circle

And from the corner of our eyes

We see one or two swoop down nearby

Close enough for a feather to fall on our shoulders

Before the offending bird flies up again

Into the sky

We imagine that the day you get married

The wedding bells will be heard

All over the kingdom

And choirs from all over the land

Will sing your praises

Blessing you and your prince

With all the luck in the world

On that day

We’ll say our own prayer for you

That you’ll have a good life

But a small one

Not one worthy of telling

Past a lifetime

Not because we hate you

But because we could not bear

Thinking of our own stories locked to yours forever

The story of some nasty, rude stepsisters
Who tried to destroy someone
Pure and kind

Ignorant, hurtful monsters

Though that may still be how we are

We are still young

And might grow out of it

...Or perhaps not

As we sit here each night

We glance down at our poor feet

Our poor bare feet

Covered in ash and soot

And we wonder if they’ll always be the size they are now

Or if one day they’ll grow a little smaller

Small enough to fit

Into a slipper made of glass

And strong enough
To travel far away
From here