I Wear My Mother's Clothes

Another Day of the Dead grief ritual over.  So much beauty, so much tenderness.  We truly became the "sudden community" Michael Meade talks about.  It's a lot of work, putting this thing on.  Most years I have to get over some dread and resistance of my own to do it.  Not so much this year.  I'm not sure why, but maybe it was partly my desire to honor and grieve for my friend Leona.

Barry always says, "Well, we've justified our existence for another year" when this ritual is over.

When I went to get dressed for the day, I grabbed a black outfit that had belonged to my mother.  Pretty fitting, to wear something of hers for Day of the Dead.  Here's a poem that's come out of it:

I Wear My Mother’s Clothes

When my mother died,

my sister and I removed

the two gold bracelets from

her weeping arms and

put them on each other.

Later, we divided up

her jewelry, and took

some items of

her clothing.

I am 5’8” tall.

Mom was at least

six inches shorter.

You might think her clothes

would never fit me.

Well, they did.

Her full-length pants

became my capris,

her width became

my length.

Those first weeks,

I wore her outfits

almost every day.

I did not plan to do this.

When I would go to my closet,

these were the clothes

that came to my hand.

I felt some comfort

surrounding my body

with what had

touched hers.

Even now,

thirteen years later,

I wear those clothes

from time to time.

When I take them off

their hangers,

I think of her and smile.

I still miss her touch and

the sound of her voice, but

even this fading bit of contact

fills my heart with love
and gratitude.