The Harpies

My mother, raised a Catholic, left her church behind when she married my father, a Protestant.
She saw that we children were raised Protestants too, but churchgoing was never an important part of the family life except, of course for baptisms, confirmations, weddings and funerals.
I don't recall the occasion when Mother and I were sitting in the church together.
Most likely a baptism.
In front of us were a couple of harpies in their dullest Sunday Best suits, complete with little felt hats adorned with withered and faded artificial flowers.
They were talking to each other in the particular tone used to be heard by others but low enough to be claimed as private conversation.
If I had known it was dress-up, said one of them, I would have worn a dress too.
Well, said the the other harpy, some people just don't know how to dress for church...
and it dawned on me that they were referring to my mother, who was wearing a dress she had made from a length of Cherise colored Thai silk I had brought from a trip to Asia. She did look like some exotic bird surrounded by a gaggle of barnyard hens.
I was young and I was offended and I was going to let the harpies know how I felt and I was about to lean over when I felt my mother's hand on my arm.
She never said anything, she just touched my arm and I sat down again.
I think she was secretly proud that I was going to let the harpies have it, and I think she was very proud of her dress, but most of all, I think she realized that this was an occasion for somebody else, a baptism I think, and we were better folks than the harpies who, I am sure, having accomplished their smear would later re-live this over and over again while drinking their coffee and eating cookies.
I don't remember mother wearing that dress again, though.