My mother’s life was a tapestry woven with threads of many experiences. A dancer, a world traveler, a single mother, and a college professor, her journey was reflected in the countless items she carefully preserved. When she passed away in 2018, I inherited her entire wardrobe, a collection spanning 56 years of style and memories.
As her only child, I felt a responsibility to honor her legacy by sorting through her belongings. I found myself immersed in a world of vintage clothing, each piece a window into a different era of her life. In the 1970s, she transformed from a Catholic-school girl into a dancer, her wardrobe filled with leotards and handsewn cancan costumes. Her travels to Southeast Asia in the late 1970s were documented in khaki shorts and linen button-downs, while her time in Los Angeles showcased a thrift store aesthetic – small heels, shrunken cardigans, and leather bags.
As she embraced her later years as a college professor, her style evolved again. Well-fitting denim, thrifted loafers, and a dark cornflower blue bag became her signature. My own memories of our shared closet are vivid – stacks of jeans and button-ups neatly arranged behind French doors, a testament to her meticulous nature.
The process of sorting through her wardrobe was both cathartic and overwhelming. I found myself trying on her wedding dress, imagining what dive bars her Forever 21 finds might end up in, and gasping at the discovery of a small collection of designer bags. Each item unlocked a new thread of memory, reminding me of her unique style and the bond we shared.
My unofficial godmother, an expert in grief and organization, provided me with a set of rules: “You will make mistakes – you will save too much, and you will throw things away that you regret.” Her words were a reminder that this process was not about perfection but about honoring my mother’s memory in my own way.
The clothes became a physical manifestation of my grief, a protective layer and a walking story. I hoped by incorporating them into my own wardrobe, I could keep her close. Unlike her art, jewelry, or ashes, her clothes allowed her to step out into the world with me, particularly the world of New York City, a place she never got to see me in.
My mother’s meticulous dressing habits have influenced my own fashion philosophy. She taught me the power of a blazer, the importance of a good sweater collection, and the timeless elegance of a bias-cut floral dress. Her thrifty nature was evident in her prized leather bag, purchased for a mere $3 at an estate sale.
Her love of fashion extended beyond clothes. I remember her insistence that I shave my legs for my college graduation, a moment that solidified our unique mother-daughter relationship. The same black, floral silk dress she wore to her father’s funeral graced my body at her memorial service, a bittersweet reminder of her enduring presence.
I started to understand that the process of mourning was messy and imperfect. My mother’s struggles with bipolar disorder had cast a shadow over our relationship in her final years. Motherhood had provided her with a sense of purpose, but after I moved to New York, her demons resurfaced.
Unintentionally, I have developed a similar approach to dressing, adopting her formula of stacks of jeans and blazers. Though we were rarely the same size, I find myself drawn to her clothes, embracing the opportunity to honor her style and keep her memory alive.
My friend Daniela Spector, a fellow member of the “club no one wants to be part of” – women who have lost their mothers in the prime of their lives – encouraged me to wear my mother’s clothes for her photography project, “Inheritance.” We played dress-up, trying on and piling up my mother’s archive, a collection of thrifted and handmade pieces.
My mother’s legacy lives on, not only in her clothes but in the hearts of those who knew her. Her wardrobe, now shared by a dozen women in New York City, carries a new pulse, a reminder that even in death, our loved ones continue to influence us in profound ways.
