“You’ll never guess what I bought today”, her voice sings, practically squealing, on the other end of the line, “my first ever little black dress!” My heart fluttered with excitement. That little twinge of sadness crept up too, but only for a second, it was fleeting. I hold such a soft tender spot in my heart for her. It twinges and pulses each time I think about the devastatingly difficult life she had. I have a closet full of little black dresses, but you never forget your first one. She was 58 and buying her first ever little black dress. She had never held the confidence in herself to wear one. Her confidence was something we had worked on for a long time. This moment was a long time coming. There was celebration galore. I think she may have announced it at the supermarket. “I have a surprise for you!” my voice now the one on the verge of squealing with excitement. “Ok, what is it?” “I can’t tell you silly then it wouldn’t be a surprise, but we’re going to get your nails done and you need to wear your little black dress!” “Oh, this is a big surprise if it involves the little black dress!” “Yes, have Daddy dress nice too. I’ll buy him a shirt!” Suspicion crept up in her voice, but she agreed. They renewed their wedding vows. She wore her little black dress and flip-flops with her toes painted bright pink. There was dancing and tears, lots of tears, and a cake. A cake with their wedding picture from 37 years ago on top…she wore a pink babydoll maternity dress and held me tight in her womb as she agreed to better or worse… “I need something for her to wear”, I say quietly, tears stinging the back of my eyes as I pause for his response. It’s all been so much. Too much. “Ok, did you have anything in mind baby?” “Her little black dress”, I barely managed to squeak out before the flood gates open. Three dresses make their way to my house with a message that he wasn’t sure which one it was so he sent over all three. “How can he not know which one it was?” I say in utter disappointment because it meant so much to her. As I reach for it and pull it close to my chest I realize it smells like her, she must not have washed it after she wore it last. I breathe her in. I throw on a pair of sweats because it’s all I can manage and head to the door. Pause. Then go back and grab all three dresses. Something is stirring in my belly and I don’t know what. It’s a 3 mile drive and I feel as though there is an ocean of pavement in front of me and I’m floating. I pick up the phone because I need something. I don’t know what I need, but I need something. I call her and say through tears, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I need. They told me they need an outfit to drape over her as she becomes ashes. I have all of these dresses and I was thinking it needed to be her little black dress because she loved it so much, but I don’t know if I can let it go and that feels selfish. I don’t know if I can bear the thought of them burning it. I’m so sorry to call you because I know this is hard, but I needed to call someone who would get it. I know you can’t tell me what to do…” She interrupts, which we try hard not to do to each other in these moments, and says, “I can tell you what to do! Don’t let it go. Keep it. Give yourself permission. I will give you permission. Right now you need to do whatever helps your heart. So keep it. Let it mother you Am.” Let it mother you. Words that I so desperately needed to hear. Our relationship had been so tumultuous, I mothered, she mothered, I resented, she resented, but that had all fallen away as we held space for one another in that last year. She was my rock and it may not have looked like the fairy tale I had mourned, but it was beauty~full and tragic and ours. Let it mother me. I call him and tell him that I think I need to keep it. He starts to speak and then chokes on his words. He takes a long deep breath. Exhales. “I sent over all three because I had a feeling letting that one go may be too hard on you, but I wanted it to be your decision. I didn’t want you to feel as though you had to keep it, but I had a feeling.” Let it mother me. There’s a little black dress that hangs on the back of my bedroom door. It’s soft and flowing material feels good against my cheek. Cool and soothing like her hands on my forehead when I had a fever. I watch as she strokes it with her little hands, hugs the waist, runs the soft material along her cheek and then inhales. The scent of her slowly faded and we wept. She hands me a small package. “I found this for you and it’s my gift to you.” I slowly tear back the paper to realize she has located a bottle of my mother’s perfume…hard to find as it was discontinued years ago and I had to go to the other end of the earth to find it each time she ran out. There’s a little black dress that hangs on the back of my bedroom door. Let it mother me. Once in awhile we spray it and inhale deeply because it is such a comforting smell. There’s a little black dress that hangs on the back of my bedroom door. It's the last thing I see as my eyes are heavy and I begin to dream. It's the first thing I see when I wake, as I yawn and stretch and my day begins. There’s a little black dress that hangs on the back of my bedroom door. It’s a touchstone, a reminder of the beauty, when it’s easy to get bogged down with the pain of watching someone slowly wither away, the pain of giving someone permission to go when you so desperately want them to stay. There’s a little black dress that hangs on the back of my bedroom door. Let it mother me.