Living in France, I hear it all the time, “Oh, that doesn’t translate…” Knowing how that makes me feel, I try not to use anything similar, for example – “If you know, you know…” 

When she handed me the Dayton’s bag, I was knee-buckling happy. Dominique looked confused when I asked him to take my photo with it. “I need to send it to my friends!”  “Will they know what Daytons is?” I laughed out loud. Of course they would know. IYKYK! But I couldn’t leave it with that. I can’t leave it with that. Dayton’s deserves the translation. 

I’m reminded of the song, To Sir with Love, as she sang, “How do you thank someone who has taken you from crayons to perfume? It isn’t easy, but I’ll try.” And I did grow up there. Right beside my mom. And not just “up.” I grew in confidence. In wonder. In joy. And so did she. We applied the make-up at the counter and found our smiles. We dressed in curtain flung rooms and felt worthy of life beyond the three-way mirror. We Cinderella-ed our feet in the shoe department, and stood tall. We received the compliments easily, and bounced them onward. 

We knew the workers by name. Pauline was the first to take us into the Oval Room, like we belonged. We believed her. And so we did. 

Dayton’s saw us through broken hearts. Broken bones. Birthdays. Holidays. Wounded egos. Proms and weddings. Job interviews and first dates. Frozen Sunday afternoons. And sweltering suns. Always constant. Always bright. So how do you thank someone for that? The only way I know is to tell the story. Keep it alive. Translate the words, and feelings, again and again.

I placed the bag on my heart-wearing sleeve, and stepped out into the sun. The feeling was pure joy – OHIHYK! (Oh, how I hope you know!)