26/ Dressing to Go Out, Part I

Dressing to Go Out

The neighbors took me with them

to buy a dress to bury my mother in.

I was nine. They may have thought I’d want

to be part of the process, or more likely

they didn’t know what else to do with me.

They let me think I helped

pick out the dress. It was black.

Black was something she wore for rare

evenings out, or more often gatherings

at home with their friends. Beer or mixed

drinks, food, music and laughter.

She owned a black velvet hooded cape,

Long and dramatic. My dad photographed

her in it, and in everything else. And in nothing.

His portraits of her fill albums, boxes.

I thought she’d like the black dress,

But I don’t know where I imagined

she’d wear it. Today the term

is “magical thinking.” I remember

the sickening shock of seeing her

in the coffin. I hear my loud hysterics,

see myself taken hurriedly out of the funeral home,

smell the cloying scent that comes back

to me every time I enter a florist shop.