A pair of pink pants—
Dad says,
“Strange, isn’t it?
Pink once stood for boys
before it got swapped from some marketing push.”

I see some sparkly high heels—
Mom nods,
“Men wore these first—
Persian soldiers, French nobility—
heels meant power, not ‘girliness.’ back then.”

Further on, a glittering eyeshadow palette—
Dad taps it and says
“Powder and rouge
were symbols of status
in the 18th century;
kings and courtiers wore them a lot.”

We come to a crib—
Mom’s voice turns soft:
“Not all women carry children—
it doesn’t make them any less,
and even my being a mother
does not make me any more of a woman.”

Beyond that were diaper bags marked “For Dads”—
Dad shrugs:
“Plenty of men don’t become fathers,
some fathers have wombs—
biology isn’t as simple
as this way or that.”

They pause and look at me:
“So… which one are you?” they ask
I swallow my questions,
feeling unsure.
“I am not certain,” I say.
They smile,
“Then let’s keep walking! I’m sure you’ll find something.”

I pass some bright sequined pants,
Mom remembers,
“There was a time
women weren’t allowed to wear pants all—
but nobody bats an eye at that now.”

A well-tailored suit catches my eye—
Dad runs a hand over the fabric:
“Men often wore fancy skirts, too—
think of kilts, or robes of old kings.
Clothes don’t tell us what is inside of a person.”

They ask me again,
“So… which one are you then?”
I look from item to item—
pink and blue, glitter and denim,
cribs and caps,
it’s a swirling centuries of things!

My answer rises, clearer this time:
“I don’t want to be either,” I say.
“Why do I have to decide?”

Mom and Dad both pause
and then softly smile
I hold each of their hands
and we leave the aisles behind.