The pile feels endless––an old pair of shorts, a bag of hotel shampoo, the August issue of Family Circle, faded jeans. A few treasures, but mostly junk, languish in this dusty corner of my bedroom. My Mother’s wedding dress lay buried at the bottom of it all.
I unzip the cover and feel the soft, white velvet. She had a Christmas wedding. I can still hear my Mother’s angry voice, “Nothing good ever came from that marriage.”
I want to answer, “Well, me. Maybe.” But I don’t. Like so many other things, this is not about me.
What to do with the dusty dress now? I can’t bring myself to toss it away, into the Salvation Army bag. And so it hangs, crowded into the corner of the guest room closet.
I think of my little neighbor friend, only eight, who endures this grief. Last year, she sat at my kitchen table and cried. “This divorce is even going to screw up Christmas,” she told me, incredulous. “I have to be with my Dad two days before Christmas, and then my Mom on the actual Christmas. But we’ll never be all together. Can you believe it?”
And so we made cookies together. And when she left, by some miracle, she was smiling again. Last week, her best friend moved away from our street, and when the van pulled away, I reached over to hug her. She had no tears then. “Well, at least we can write!” she chirped. “Oh,” she said, “by the way. Christmas is all messed up again this year.”
“Then lets make our cookies again,” I offered.
“Yes, I’d like that.”
Me too, dear one. Me too.