Recreating My Mother

After Trying My Own Writing Prompt

In my last post (link here), I shared a recent Write in the Gallery handout with thoughts on how clothing evokes memory and, to some extent, identity. As part of the writing prompt, I brought along some vintage clothes and hats I thought would make for interesting examples. These included a 1950’s era Rose Marie Reid Swimsuit and a prototypical “little black dress” (Gay Gibson, Size 9) of my mother’s. In putting them away later, I found another dress of hers I didn’t know I had and don’t remember ever having seen her wear.

Lilac Dress Dancing in the Wind on the Arm of Old Apple Tree by Laura Hansen

I thought it deserved a bit of fresh air and a little photo shoot! And the result was the following poem:

 Party Dress with Satin Bow
by Laura L. Hansen

By keeping this one dress of her mother's,
one she never even saw her mother wear,
she is choosing to remember Mom
at her best, even better, she is choosing
to remember a version of her that possibly
never existed. She holds the dress up
in the light of the window, admires
how the crinoline-lined taffeta
holds its shape. Admires the gloss 
and sheen, the slightly too large roses,
the deeply tucked waist, the modest scoop
of the neck. Her mother always had
a tiny waist, but this dress tells the story
of a woman with equally pared down hips,
not the hips that bore three children,
but those of a young woman
at her first garden party 
or friend's wedding.
     She likes 
     how this dress 
     makes her feel.
     Sophisticated.
     Fresh.
     Lively.
     Dance card in hand.  
Marissa likes this version of her mother.
One she can contain, control.
One that feels happy.
The woman in this dress
is a woman that smiles, broadly
and often. She does not yet know
the frustration of obligation,
of waiting for a husband 
who is late to arrive home, who
hasn't yet sighed as a toppled glass
spoils her carefully laid out table.
For several years, Marissa has kept
in the hall closet her Mother's
long elegant tablecloths, still 
neatly pressed and hung in plastic.
She should let them go, as she finally
let go of Grandmother's silverware.
All those years of formal dinners, 
candlelight playing across crystal
water goblets. Plates passed hand 
to hand. Mother pulling serving dishes
from the warming oven, hips spreading
under floral aprons. The aprons 
would be the thing to keep
for a tangible reminder, and her black
enamel roasting pan that perfectly
fits an eight-pound leg of lamb, 
her gravy ladle. But no, this dress
is what she will keep, a party
for the closet, a rustle of fabric,
a dance.

In the poem, I refer to the dress as having oversized roses similar to the one above. And though there is nothing wrong with poetic license, there is a specific reason the dress from the closet shows up in the poem the way it does. I am aphantasiac; I have no mind’s eye, see nothing with my eyes closed. So, it often happens that when I sit down to write, I describe what I thought I saw but with great imperfection. Ergo, my lilac/rose confusion. I left the poem as written, even after my surprise at pulling the dress back out of the closet for its airing and photo shoot. In this way, I honor the futility of trying to nail down memory and the fluidity of truth.

For titling purposes, I also let the “lie” of the satin bow stand in for the faux buckle with rhinestones.

I’d love to hear how memories express themselves to you; as sound, as image, as movie reel, as taste, as song?

I loved going around the yard trying to find artsy places to photograph the dress and the crystal necklace I found in another box. It made me look at my yard in a new way.

…and my neighbors are probably looking at me in a new way as well, strange old lady wandering the yard hanging party dresses in the trees!

…and on the shed.

I’m thinking my next foray into the yard will be to photograph the vintage bathing suit (it’s a stunner!) with my old slalom waterski that lives in the shed. I had a chat a few weeks ago with a friend - two seventy-ish women with our handicap parking stickers talking about slalom skis and how we just can’t let them go though we’ll, clearly, never use them again. Pure nostalgia. Pure foolishness. I’d bet anyone watching us in Perkin’s that day imagined we were talking about grandbabies.

As always, I remind you that I love to hear your responses or at least know that you are reading along so comment, share, recommend, send me a heart, might I even suggest subscribe?