How I've Stayed Close to My Mom After Her Death

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I loved most things about my mom — but the one thing I hated was her garish taste in clothing. My mom was a self-confessed clotheshorse who never met a neon color she didn’t adore, from screaming yellow corduroy pants to a shocking pink dress with a ruffled hem, to pants in a plaid so loud, they were deafening. I was always a little dizzy when she showed up in her fanciest, most attention-getting styles. The louder she was, the softer I wanted to be. But it wasn’t enough for her to buy those clothes for herself; she wanted me to wear similar styles myself.

Of course, I balked in horror.

As a child, I had to wear what she bought for me. But I got no joy out of the canary yellow coat with matching hat my mom was so proud to present to me. I hated the lime green sweater with a plaid inset she bought on sale, so it couldn’t be returned. I remember a pink and white checked skirt that paired with a pink turtleneck and a pink striped ribbon, which I wore to fifth grade.

“You have the prettiest clothes,” my teacher complimented. I didn’t glow from her words, because I knew they weren’t my clothes or my choices.

As I got older, I began to assert myself, and our battles grew. She didn’t understand why, when we shopped together, I headed for the darkest, muddiest colors, or why I wouldn’t even try on the garish purple dress she was sure would look so adorable on me.

“You need colors that sing,” she insisted. Later, when I could go and buy my own clothes, it was now her turn to frown when I showed off the darkest brown wool minidress I found, the midnight blue pants that were almost black. “You don’t know what’s cute,” my mother insisted.

But I did know. I would head out in my black dress and black tights, my high-top sneakers and my mother would be at the door before I had it open, a bright green sweater of hers in hand. “Wear this over all that black,” she begged. "Put on a cute pair of shoes from my closet.” I kissed her and politely refused.

Only once did I dress the way my mother wanted. When I came home from college after my father died, I wore what I thought was appropriate: a vintage black velvet dress, a little frayed on the bottom. My mom, in a puff-sleeved striped blue dress with pleats, quietly lifted up my worn hem and begged me not to wear the dress. And because she was in pain, I changed into an old dress I had left behind in a closet.

The clothes argument continued well into my 40s and 60s, too, until my mother needed to move into independent living. She had to clean out some of her clothes, and offered me her bright blue silk shirt and her gauzy pink dress she always wore to weddings. She genuinely wanted me to have some of her clothes.

When I said no thank you, she looked so bereft that my husband touched my arm gently, whispering, “Take something. It will make her happy. You can always give it away later.” So, I took two things: a blue raincoat she had, with a hood, though I never wore hoods or raincoats, and a necklace she pressed on me, with knotted fake pearls as big as grapes. “I love it,” I lied, and my mother beamed. I took her things home and stashed them in a closet, and when my mother asked if I had worn them, I lied enthusiastically.

When my mother died, my husband and I cleaned out her little apartment. “Your mom was such a fancy dresser,” her favorite aide told me. But by that time, the only clothes left were well-worn T-shirts and pull-on pants in sturdy brown or grey. Somehow, that made me sadder than if she had left the ruffles, stripes and clown colors. To my surprise, I missed what I thought was her terrible fashion sense. I missed her.

Two months after her death, I dreamed about her and woke in shock that she was gone. I dug into my drawer and found her pearls, and as soon as I put them on, incongruous against my black shirt, I felt their warmth. I kept reaching up to touch them, as if I was carrying a piece of her with me. I could feel her approval and could hear her sighing in pleasure, “Now, don’t you look nice.”

I wore those pearls all the time, and when they broke and scattered into the water, I crouched down crying. “Oh no!” I cried, and another person tapped me. “Did you lose something? Something valuable?” she asked.

Oh yes,” I said. “I did."

I came home, feeling full of sorrow. I stared at my closet, at the sea of black, and then, there, stashed in the back, I noticed something. My mother’s blue raincoat. I had never worn it before, but now I took it out and put it on and studied myself in the mirror. It hit me at just the right length. It was silky, and it draped beautifully. I wrapped its arms about me. And I began to wear it all the time, and every time I did, I felt great.

I’m now convinced clothes carry memories along with the DNA of the person who wore them before you. Or maybe, they just carry love. And that’s the thing I always want to wear most of all. Now, in the rain, I wear that coat, and I pull up the hood. It keeps the rain off, and the love for my mother in.

Do you and your mother have the same taste in clothing? Let us know in the comments below.