My father looked at me quizzically.

“Al? What are you wearing?”

We’d just come back from a walk on the beach. Were at the rinsing station, hosing sand off our feet.

“A skirt,” I said.

Andy—my brother—chimed in: “He’s been wearing it since y’all got here.”

It’s true. And they got here three days ago.

I liked that it took him that long to notice. I try not to make a big deal about it.

“Why are you wearing a skirt?”

“Because I like skirts. They’re more comfortable than pants, especially at the beach.”

“Oh. Okay.”

With that, he accepted it as one more of his children’s quirks.

I thought my mother would at least comment, but she never did. She seemed to take it in stride.

If I’d pulled this in high school, it would’ve been the height of disgrace. Not just for me, for the whole family. I would’ve been grounded. My mother would’ve taken me in to talk to the priest. But now she just filed it under “things about my children that I don’t understand.”

It’s an extensive file.

That was 2015. Back then, I only wore skirts at the beach and around the house. Then came the pandemic. The best thing about the pandemic was that I could wear skirts all the time. The only people I saw were my roommates and my neighbors and some dogs. I didn’t put on a pair of pants for a good six months. When it was finally time to go out in public, I was comfortable enough in skirts that I said Fuck it.

My parents are used to it by now. I wear skirts around them most of the time because that’s what I’d be wearing anyway. I kept waiting for my mother to ask if that means I’m gay, but she never did. I guess she’s not going to.

I’ve been visiting my parents this week, for Mother’s Day. It’s become a tradition.

The night before I am to leave, my mother finally brings it up, seven years later:

“I like that you wear whatever you want, Al. If you wanna wear a skirt, you wear a skirt.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m about to the point where I’m done with skirts,” she said. “And dresses. Even at church I wear pants.”

“I don’t see why you wear pants when you don’t have to. It’s like they squeeze you— mhmhhh—”

I mime the suffocating action of pants.

I consider adding that pants were invented for warfare, for fighting on horseback— but I decide against it.

“At least with pants you don’t have to worry about the wind blowing and showing everybody your underwear.”

“Underwear?”

“You don’t wear underwear?”

“You gotta have air flow; that’s the best part of wearing a skirt.”

“Oh, now that’s—whaddaya call it? TMI.”

She’s got a point.

“That’s a new skirt, huh?”

“I just got it.”

“Where’d you get it?”

I tell her about the lady in India who makes skirts to your specifications; she’s got an Etsy shop. You give her your waist measurement and the length and color you want; she has 32 colors to choose from. I have four skirts made by her. They’re the perfect skirt. They’re linen and they have pockets, which is difficult to find in skirts. They have an elastic waist which is important for me because I don’t have hips, so most skirts don’t fit me right. A funny thing to tell your mother. But it’s nice to be so comfortable around her.

“Well, I like it,” she says.