Mourning Attire

“A single person is missing for you, and the whole world is empty.”- Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking

As I clutched Natasha Trethewey's Thrall in the passenger seat listening to my husband chatter about paying bills I drifted off... It was late summer/early fall it wasn't too cold or heaving heat, I was beginning the 3rd grade, Aunt Pam and I were doing our yearly ritual school shopping. We ventured into The Gap in Suburban Square and there it was a green and blue patterned tartan dress on the mannequin in the window. She scouted the store for the dress and voila it was like she had found a prize. I gave a bizarre look, one of my infamous faces that I still make to this day. In Aunt Pam fashion, she urged me to try it on, I hesitantly obliged. I came out of the dressing room all but enthused and she said in her soft (persuasive) tone "Janai you look so nice honey"... Abruptly disrupted from my musing, my husband hit a pothole. As I came to Fire & Desire blared from the car speakers, vexed with my other half for his choppy driving and disturbing my reverie. Sucking my teeth I laid back in my seat, closing my eyes, but to no avail I attempted to pick up where I left off. I turned the radio up and began murmuring Teena Marie's verse, I slowly zoned out again. This time was 5th grade, it was my birthday and like every year I got a new outfit for my special day. I could feel the fabric in my hands as I rubbed my wool fringed red tartan wrap skirt, paired with red opaque tights and cream clothed Mary Janes. I was classy. It was then I knew I was in love with tartan. Jarred from my memory this time by a car horn, agitated that I couldn't bask in the memories of her. It was bad enough that I couldn't look at her pictures and the dreams that I'm sure one would think were comforting was short of being a horrible nightmare. I awake in tears each time I realized she was gone. Paralyzed by her warm smile, haunted by her sweet voice, only to revive and realize it was all a fantasy. March 8th made 4 months since she made her transition into what my religion tells me is a beautiful place with a street paved with gold. How uncomforting are the classic phrases we all say when someone passes on "Heaven gained another angel" "God got another flower in His garden". Torn by her memories why did God need my flower. She said she was going to beat this. Victory would be hers. I claimed it for her even in her weakest hours. As I lay on the couch 4 months since her demise I can see her smile when Dr. Sharma would give bad news. As I laid there I felt her tears the day we were driving in the car and she thought I was sleep. This must be a incubus hoax, maybe I'm in an hallucination and she's sitting by my bedside waiting for me to come to. I've yet to cry out for her. It's as if mourning her would actually acknowledge the reality of it all. The audacity of me to ever think or believe that my family was exempt from this kind of pain, this loss. I had seen it many times before, even lost my brother not so long ago, but this torment was different. Maybe I can perform a gestational ritual and reborn she will be. They say the pain is eased with time, I say with time it's gotten harder often unbearable. I never felt a void as much as this one. Nothing could've prepared me for this moment in time. They say give people the flowers while they can smell them, I did that. They say tell people you love them while they're here, did that too. I wince each time a commercial for a cancer treatment facility comes on television and I often wonder why not her. Why isn't she giving her testimonial? When I scroll down my timeline on social media and someone's family member is fighting this ugly disease or has succumbed to it I get a nauseating feeling in my stomach because I know the strife all too well. My "Monday Mentor" suggested I go to grief counseling I look at her strangely and think I can't do that, it solidifies the deal. It's reality tv and not some scripted tale. It would mean she's really gone and not returning, not in the hospital as I tricked my mind into believing. I think of ways to mourn her, I even thought about wearing all black for 90 days as if somehow that would be a rite of passage to getting through this. All the black in the world couldn't mask my confusion and pain. Today though I'm at ease looking at my pile of clothes. Since she's gone my routine is just wash and fold, nothing has a place. As I conquer the mass I know exactly what I want to wear to remember her. I pull the tartan leggings on one leg at a time, warm tears roll down my face as I hear her say to that 3rd grader" Janai you look so nice honey" More tears come as I'm putting my makeup on blush (rouge as she called it) was her favorite. I fight back what's coming next as I've done for the past 4 months and a day, for fear that whatever it is won't stop. A broken artery or a bleeding wound. I take a deep breath, swallow it back, I gaze in the mirror and a pseudo smile is planted on my face. Aunt Pam and I never agreed on fashion, but tartan was common ground. She always said I had no style I would retort that she dressed like a Quaker. It was the times in which we grew up. She was baby boomer, so midi skirts and longer, clogs and birkenstocks, and blousy top were staples of her trousseau. My wardrobe was and is the complete opposite the tighter, the shorter the better. We both liked color. Today I dressed tartan my way in memoriam of her in the only way I've learned to cope with her absence... Swallowing the lump in my throat, patting the tears dry, forging a smile, on my way to conquer my day an attempt to keep going believing that one day she'll come through the door again and not just in my dreams. 

Outfit DEETS

Hat: Charlotte Russe

Jacket: Ashley Stewart

Sweater: H&M

Leggings: ASOS

Boots: Torrid

Until we meet again, 

LOVE & LIGHT

XO

Jane