Illustration by Alex Deadman-Wylie
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My mother Meg loved fashion. A former art teacher, she had an artistic eye. Her closets and dressers brimmed with carefully curated clothes, shoes, hats, scarves, purses and jewellery. Every Christmas and birthday, she would give me a new party dress and matching purse. But I hated dresses and purses. As a teenager, I was more interested in sports than style, so my outfit of choice was a tracksuit and running shoes. My mother longed to take me shopping (her preferred pastime), but I was too busy playing basketball, skateboarding or climbing trees. So, I buried the purses at the back of my bedroom closet where the dresses hung like dust-covered effigies. It was a garment graveyard.
When she died at 92, I delivered the eulogy. My fingers were adorned with her rings as I stood at the pulpit. I wore a navy blazer with purple racing stripes, purchased on a rare occasion when I had reluctantly joined her on a shopping excursion to one of her favourite shops. If only she could have seen me standing at the lectern, looking so smartly dressed.
Then the dreaded time came for me to clear out her closets. I still have no interest in fashion. What was I going to do with all her clothes? Sell them? Donate them?
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My mother had spent a lifetime building her collection, so I knew I had to honour her in some way. She had a style like Diane Keaton: oversized dresses and sweaters; art-piece necklaces; colourful round eyeglasses; French berets and eclectic clip-on earrings. I emptied her closets and laid everything out on the bed, the couch and the dining table until every surface of their condominium was covered. Then I invited my two most well-dressed friends over, and they spent hours trying on outfits and attempting to persuade me to keep a few items for myself. We did a fashion show for my 96-year-old dad, too, involving him in the fun.
I thought it would be heart-wrenching and in a way it was, but it was also fun. My mother would have loved to see her clothes bringing us so much joy. Afterward, we went out to lunch at my mother’s favourite local Italian restaurant. I ordered her best-loved meal, pappardelle with wild mushrooms and truffle oil, and we toasted her with glasses of white wine.
My parents spent much of their 65 years together travelling the world. In each country, my mother would search for an interesting item to add to her clothing collection. An emerald ring from Italy (purchased at the top of a switchback mountain). A hand-painted cane from Mexico. A wool tartan shawl from Scotland.
I now wear the prized ring on special occasions. The cane rests atop my father’s desk. I think it was one of her most cherished items, because it reminded her of all the Februarys they had spent in Mexico over the past 20 years. It was like a faithful friend who accompanied her everywhere she went. I bought her a new pink metal cane which was much sturdier but the new cane stood abandoned in a corner like all those purses and dresses I had rejected long ago.
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The tartan shawl was one of the few pieces of clothing I held onto. I find it comforting to wrap it around myself while watching television at night. It feels like my mother’s arms are wrapped around me.
Some items went to her friend from church, who shared my mother’s love for designer clothes. Another church friend selected a warm winter coat, which I often see her wearing at services. Both these women often say to me on Sundays, “I’m wearing your mother’s sweater today,” or, “This is your mother’s necklace.” We share a smile and, for a moment, think fondly of my mother and her remarkable taste. Other items went to her personal support workers who had cared for my mother so tenderly and cheerfully over the past few years. The rest I was happy to donate to charity.
I had been dreading the closet clearance, but as one of my friends said afterward, “That was such a beautiful day – one of those that will stay with me forever. Thank you.”
It will stay with me forever, too.
Catharine Fitton lives in Toronto.