Clothing Memories

[I originally wrote this as a submission to wornstories.com/. The guidelines said it had to be less than 600 words, so hopefully there are not many mistakes because of my attempt to squish it down. I tried to find a picture of the dress when it was brand new, but there's only two in existence and I can't find it in our picture black hole. Taking a picture of its state now, about 18 years later I believe would be anticlimactic.]

When you first look at my bed, it probably looks like it could belong to any other teenage girl: bedspread, pillows, and a few stuffed animals thrown in the mix. But if a quick scan turns into a searching glance, you would see that in the corner under the blanket is a small lump. This small lump isn’t another stuffed animal or small pillow.

That lump is a size three button up silky-like red dress that I sleep with. Every night.

Of course I realize that dresses are meant to be worn, not slept with. But this, this is my security blanket. The person who owned it before me only wore it on a few occasions, since it isn’t your average casual or church dress. Between the top button on the neck and the one below it, there’s a circular space designed to show a little skin with a heart charm hanging down into it. It almost seems slightly risqué, at least on a conservative Mormon. The previous owner doesn’t care about the fact that I sleep with it as one would sleep with an old, faded favorite blanket. The previous owner is dead. The previous owner was also my mother.

I found the dress when I was around thirteen. I was sifting through my mother’s hope chest at my grandparent’s house. When my grandma came in and saw that I had found it, she smiled. “I remember that dress. Your mom wore it when she and your dad and Grandpa and I went to see “The Phantom of the Opera” at the Salt Palace. I think we got it at somewhere like… Dillard’s? No, I’m pretty sure it was Nordstrom.” Going through some of my grandma’s old pictures, I found a picture of the night they went. My mom is wearing the dress, with her hair down and her typical large smile spread across her face. Whenever I look at pictures of her, I study the eyes and the smile and think, she really didn’t know what was coming for her, did she?

At night I clutch the dress in my arms, holding it tight, inhaling that musty-yet-sweet smell of years passed in a cedar chest. It is soft to the touch, cool against my face, and makes me almost believe that my mother is here. I talk to it sometimes, pretending it is her. When I hug it, I hug my mom. When I tell her that I love her, it is she who hears it, not a piece of lifeless red fabric. One may chalk it up to madness; I chalk it up to grief.

The dress is among the few things I have left of a person I do not remember, aside from a few memories. It represents the person who loved singing alto in various choirs. It represents the person who would sneak microwave popcorn into movies using her purse. It represents the person who dedicated her life to her family and to her career as a psychiatric nurse. It represents the person who dealt with kidney disease and dozens of surgeries, along with a few near-death experiences. It represents the person who longed for a child for years, and in turn received two miracle babies.

Sometimes during the night the dress escapes above the covers. When my dad or stepmom wake me up, I try to hide and cover it. They never say anything, but I’m sure they’ve seen it and know of its existence. My family never talks about her, they pretend she never existed. She and the sadness from her death are not supposed to exist in our seemingly happy and normal family. But when I have no one else to turn to, the dress with the remnants of a person long gone will always be there to comfort me.

[UPDATE: I did find a couple of pictures of her with the dress, but not the one from the "Phantom of the Opera Night"... I'm sure the picture vortex in my house swallowed it up. This one was taken by my iPod camera and not scanned, thus the poor quality and discoloration. The poor quality does not, however, change my depressed look... :)]