Packing my parents’ closet at my childhood home felt like an archaeological fashion dig. Decades of dusty dresses from the ’50s hung neatly—sharp creases still visible from the wire hangers. Each dress, meticulously crafted by my mom’s nimble, younger fingers, represented a piece of history. I relished the mommy-and-me dresses in a soft lavender she made for Easter. My hands gently traced the tiny tufted threads in a myriad of colors. The wire hangers screeched across the metal bar, but the noise faded when I spotted an especially stunning, crisp taffeta dress, its deep scarlet flowers bloomed amidst the pastels and winter whites.

I couldn’t bear to donate the ruby beauty to a thrift store, so I kept it. Months later, when my mom passed, I clung to this piece of her past. I imagined her wearing it while teaching or maybe for Christmas. I struggled to recall a photo of her wearing it.

After relocating to my closet, the dress never left its hanger. It just hung there. My mom’s carefully handcrafted treasure deserved better—meant for someone to wear and celebrate—but not me. I outsized my mother in both height and curves. The thought of squeezing into the unforgiving taffeta with its frazzled seams didn’t feel celebratory—it wasn’t going to happen. Fortunately, I had a theatre friend with a passion for fashion, one who rivaled the main character in *Pretty in Pink*. When I presented the rosy frock to her, she squealed in glee. I smiled. She responded in a nearly nasal tone, drawing out simple words with a multisyllabic, dramatic flair: “But it’s your mooom’s—you caaan’t.”

“She’d love for you to have it… but it’s a little old… vintage… and the armpits…well…well…let’s just say they’re well-ventilated,” I grimaced apologetically. “But I think you’ll look stunning.”

“I’ll take great care of it,” she promised, her manicured finger tracing one of the blossoms. “I loved your mother… she meant the world to me.”

I felt I had chosen well.

Over the years I regretted my choice. Thankfully, a wise colleague suggested I tuck one of Mom’s mauve scarves, which softly released her signature essence, into a plastic bag. I stored it in my top dresser drawer. Merely opening the bag appeased my longing for a bit of her.

Now, eight years later I  ached for Mom’s red dress…lamented my generosity…rehearsed my gift retraction speech for when I’d run into my friend. I often wondered if she’d given it away, or even worse: if she disposed of it.

Then, days away from the traumaversary of Mom’s passing, on another “I miss mom” kind of day– missed her smile and advice, I encountered the friend at her workplace, 

“Wait here,” she instructed giddily. “I have something for you.”

She returned with a large, decorative royal blue bag with gold accents, tissue paper ballooning over the edges. “You’ll understand once you see it,” she explained. I peeled back the tissue paper and stood stunned by a familiar red taffeta—now transformed into a pillow. Instinctively, I buried my nose in it, relieved to discover no scent lingered; Mom’s mauve scarf remained my only olfactory link to her.

”This is the…” I gulped, “traumaversary of her passing.”

“I know..” was all she needed to say. “I picked the card because it matches the fabric,” my friend gently explained. “Just read it… you’ll understand.”

I tucked the card and scarf into the pillow—a little something to hug and breathe in deeply “I miss Mom,” kinda day.