It was hard for me to cope when my grandma passed away last May. Although I’ve dealt with loss before, this was the first instance where someone who was highly present in my life passed. For months, I could barely talk about her without crying. Every conversation with my grandfather ended with us both in tears, and I desperately missed her. I still do.
In November, my cousin Emily and I went to visit our grandpa. During this time, my dad’s sisters sorted through Grandma’s clothes to clear some room in the closets. They picked out what could be given to family, what could be donated and what should be thrown away. We started looking through her wardrobe because my aunt told us to look at some old leather jackets we might like.
Looking through her closet, we stumbled upon a goldmine; tweed coats straight out of the 60s, corduroy pants in every color of the rainbow and a handbag to match every pair of shoes. I found the dress she wore to my parent’s wedding, and Emily stumbled on the pantsuit she had worn to her wedding a few years back. We laughed at the dresses from the 80s with ridiculously large shoulder pads and teared up at the sweatshirt with all her grandchildren’s names ironed on. My intention was not to leave my Grandpa’s with a pile of my grandma’s things; however, Grandpa encouraged us to take anything we wanted. I could tell it brought him joy to see his granddaughters take an interest in his wife’s clothes, many of which he had bought as a gift for her. I left that trip with two armfuls of clothes and a wicker basket full of shoes, and Emily did too. We took so much that we could barely fit it all in her car when it was time to leave.
I took some items because they were just as cool today as they were back then. I probably have the world’s most colorful collection of corduroy pants. You want to see them in purple? Teal? Fuscia? I’ve got a pair. Some items I took simply for sentimental value. I’ll likely never wear the poofy green dress she wore to my parents’ wedding, but it makes me happy to see it hanging in my closet. I picked up outfits simply because I love the memories I have where she’s wearing them. I took one of her nightgowns; I never wear it, but it makes me think of when I would sit beside her as she embroidered in her rocking chair.
One of the best ways to get to know someone is to look at their closet. Your clothes are how you choose to present yourself to the world. They speak to your culture, your heritage and your circumstance. Sometimes, closets are like time capsules to their owner’s existence – relics and memories of the life they have lived. I learned a lot about my grandma just by going through her clothes. I saw her as a mother making breakfast for her five children before rushing to work and then the PTA meeting later that day. I saw her as a figure in the community, retired but still devoting time to the little town she loved.
Wearing my grandma’s clothes – and quite literally walking a mile in her shoes – has made me feel closer to her; it’s also helped me cope. In death, there is no closure. Even if you get the chance to say goodbye, it is impossible to convey just how much someone means to you. These material possessions are the physical embodiment of my love. They are tangible; I can touch them, feel them and hold on to them. Having my grandma’s things is a way for me to show her I love her and it proves that I will never let her go.