I love this dress.
Loving “objects” sometimes feels a little wrong to me, because they are not people, not living. It’s “materialistic.” But you know what? I love how this dress makes me feel. The look of it, the feel of the material, the swishing of the skirt, the open back, the fit on my body. I love it. I love where I got the dress: a second hand store in Brattleboro on one of our trips to the hospital there for Mama’s appointments.
I have a special feeling about clothes. They are treasures. T-shirts from concerts or theater camps or the Goodwill, plaid button ups just long enough and fitted enough, jeans that hug my hips, comfy pajamas for snuggling in, sweaters with just the right stripes, warm socks, beautiful dresses. I like to take care of them so they’ll last a long time.
Clothes have memories, stories. They remind me of certain times, comfort me. My mom’s orchid-pink, hand-painted strapless dress from when she was twenty-one. My sister’s blue flannel shirt that she gave me when she moved out of Oregon after college and was getting rid of most of her stuff. My boyfriend’s wool sweater that shrunk in the wash. My aunt Theresa’s black and white wrap dress she gave me along with other hand-me-downs when cleaning out her closet in Colorado. Feeling that someone is with me when I wear an item of clothing that used to be theirs.
I wore this gold dress over the weekend to my cousin Chad’s Bar Mitzvah along with a pair of black dance flats with bows that I got at Payless when Mama and I went to the Berkshire Mall together on the bus.
I think clothes are living, in a way. Clothes hold our bodies as we dance, cook, read, walk, work, love, fight, sleep. They live our lives with us.