Physical activity and grief don’t mix.
I have been good. I’ve been to the gym. I’ve been to Zumba. I’ve walked so much I discovered I desperately need new running shoes. Hell, I even took my kids on a neighbourhood clean up!
Today, however, with the lawyers and the bankers and the auctioneers set to sell off a lifetime of my mother’s belongings, the bath and the wine seemed more attractive. I think God will forgive me.
Grief is all consuming. I thought I had weathered a big part of it… I’ve certainly complained on this blog enough. A tantrum today over my mother’s junior prom dress, which six months from now I will wonder why I ever wanted it, proved otherwise.
My sister and I have dealt with the bulk of the house. All that remains is my mother’s hope chest, but it contains the biggest landmines. It holds the mysteries of things she kept but never told us why. It holds the family histories: the photos, the documents, the letters and the general flotsam of which we will never know the significance. It holds the damn prom dress.
I don’t even understand my attachment. There are two dresses. The prom dress, a green that, while a currently unfashionable shade, is one that suits my colouring and my mother’s, and her wedding dress. That dress is one that I have always regretted not wearing myself and one that I changed the dress I did buy to emulate. My sister has already agreed to give me the wedding gown. Why then is the stupid prom dress so important?
I don’t have daughters that will want these things. The Girl is very unlikely to want them and, realistically, neither am I. The prom dress was worn by a woman I didn’t know with a gawky date long lost to history. The wedding dress was the start of the life that produced me. Why then am I even considering offering up the wedding gown in exchange?
Grief is irrational. I am irrational. Why do I want the stupid dress?