(This essay was written based on a writing prompt provided by Heather Sellers at a writing workshop at Esalen in Big Sur, California. With the three-year anniversary of my mom’s death quickly approaching, I thought it fitting to finally post this short essay that I wrote shortly after her death.)
There must be at least a dozen padded beige and white bras stuffed in the top drawer of my mother’s oak dresser. I’d already gone through the sock drawer and the huge bureau of sweaters and T-shirts last week—stuffing it all into large plastic trash bags and putting them in the Goodwill pile. Today it’s bras and underwear. Tomorrow I might tackle the make-up drawer.
My brother says to bag up the undergarments and toss them in the trash. The task seems easy enough—open the drawer, empty its contents into a trash bag, tie it up, and toss that in the trash bin outside. But once I open another drawer, I see my mother’s wedding veil from fifty-five years ago. I push the drawer shut with my knee then slump to the floor and cry–deep, wrenching sobs. I haven’t gone a day without crying since a few days before my mother passed when I knew she’d not survive her stroke.
But today I have a task: to empty the bras and underwear from the dresser and work my way through the rest of her belongings. I dry my tears and open the drawer, pulling out one bra at a time. So far, I count sixteen beige bras, some of them still with price tags from Buffum’s or JCPenney or Macy’s. When I realize they’re not my size (and not my color preference), I drop each bra into the huge black trash bag. Soon, the bag gets full, so I start a new bag and begin to fill it with beige bras and cotton underwear.
* * *
When you’re twelve and your mother buys you your first bra in the Buffum’s lingerie department, you’re embarrassed because you have to go to the teen section where the styles are plain and made out of pastel pink, white, or beige. In the other section are the lacy bras—in colors you’d never imagine wearing. It wouldn’t be until you’re in your mid-twenties when you add more color to your lingerie collection—plum, red, hot pink, black lace.
But at twelve years old, you wore beige—because that’s what your mother wore. After your mom grabs several bras from the teen rack, she carts you into the dressing room and tells you to try on one of the beige bras—size AA, the smallest size Buffum’s sells. When you’re twelve, you don’t want to be seen in the lingerie department at Buffum’s, much less have your mother join you in the dressing room, but you have no choice in the matter. It’s time for you to wear a bra, and you don’t even know how to try one on. You turn your back from your mom, ashamed of your developing body, and let her clasp the hooks in the back. As she stands behind you, she glances at the mirror and scrutinizes whether the cups are the right fit for your small breasts. After she tightens the straps, she tells you she’ll wait for you outside the dressing room. You stand in front of the mirror, perplexed at this image of you as a child wearing a bra.
* * *
As I empty another drawer, I get a call from the mortuary. I put the call on speaker phone and continue to sort through the drawers while I speak with the funeral director. He reminds me that he needs an outfit for my mom, says to bring it no later than this evening. His voice is gentle and calm, but it does nothing to soothe my anxiety as I envision my mother in the casket tomorrow evening at the viewing.
“We usually suggest something long-sleeved that goes up to or close to the neck,” the man says in a calm voice. “No need to bring shoes. The body is only seen from the waist up.”
I think for a moment and consider one of her favorite tops and slacks. “What about socks?” I ask, realizing I’d already bagged up all the socks.
“That’s up to you. That part of the casket is covered, so her feet won’t be showing.”
I imagine my mother lying in the coffin, her bare feet exposed for all of eternity. She has to be buried in socks. I’ll buy her some socks if I have to at the nearby Macy’s. I decide on black slacks and one of her favorite colorful tops—a patterned design with swirls of black, white, and royal blue.
Then I consider everything else she’d normally wear with this top—a necklace, bracelet, and maybe a scarf. And then I think about it but feel awkward to ask. I’m sure funeral directors are asked a variety of odd questions. So, I ask him: “What about . . . undergarments?” This territory of planning a funeral and selecting an outfit for the deceased is all new to me.
“Yes, I would recommend undergarments, at least a bra. It’s up to you if you want to bring underwear.”
I consider how proper my mother was her entire life, how she’d rarely go out in public without make-up. I pull a pair of beige panties from the trash bag next to the dresser and tell the funeral director that I’ll drop off the outfit in a few hours, and then I return to emptying the drawers.
* * *
Wearing your new beige bra under the pink sweater your mother bought you last week, you sit across from her at a table in the café at Buffum’s, the restaurant your mother typically only went to with her friends when they’d spend the day shopping. But today is different. It’s just you and your mom. Normally you’d prefer to have lunch at Farrell’s or Ruby’s, the food there familiar and normal.
You study the menu but only see one item on the kids’ menu that sounds good: the grilled cheese. You glance at the adult meals and see lots of salads and items you don’t recognize.
Your mom peers over the top of the menu. “You can have a milkshake if you’d like. That usually tastes good with a grilled cheese.”
From behind the menu, you study all of the entrees, trying to decide which one to pick. “What’s chicken cackatori?”
“Chicken cacciatore,” she says and laughs quietly. “I’m not sure you’d like that.”
Again, you read through the items on the regular menu and tell your mom you’re thinking of having the pasta primavera. You’re relieved she doesn’t correct your pronunciation of this entrée. Pasta primavera sounds exotic and flavorful, except you don’t even like all of the vegetables included in the dish, but your decision has convinced your mom to order the same thing, except she gets an iced tea, and you get a root beer.
When the waiter sets the food in front of you, the aroma from the pasta wafts up onto your face. When you take the first bite, you realize this is far better than any grilled cheese sandwich off the kids’ menu. Suddenly feeling so grown up, you feel glad to be with your mom instead of out riding your bike with the neighborhood kids. The bra feels stiff to you, and you worry that people can see the straps through the pink sweater. You realize that wearing a bra and eating off the regular menu means you’re no longer a child.
* * *
After I fill another trash bag full of beige cotton underwear, I open another drawer. More bras and panties. But deep under the padded beige bras, I see it—a black lace bra, an anomaly that looks so dramatic against the plain beige bras.
I pull it out by the straps, hold it up like I’m admiring it in the lingerie department at Macy’s, and set it on the plush carpet next to the oak dresser. The task of sorting through my mother’s belongings and selecting an outfit for her burial suddenly feels immense—the grown daughter for the first time picking out an outfit for her mother. Black lace bras don’t belong in the rubbish bin, nor should they be bagged up and carted off to the Goodwill.
As my eyes fill with tears, I sit on the floor and adjust the straps of the bra and set it with the outfit I’ll bring to the mortuary later today.