Say Yes To The Dress

Tucked away high on a shelf, out of mind and out of arm’s reach, my wedding dress has maintained its clandestine existence for more than 30 years.

It made its one and only debut on a cold and dark December night. I had anguished over the process of finding it. I was never much for shopping and the idea of being turned on a revolving pedestal, while poked and perused by a gaggle of shopkeepers, made me feel both queasy and embarrassed. The price tag only heightened my discomfort. Although my father was happy to foot the bill, it felt like an inordinately expensive and frivolous purchase. Bridezilla I was not.

Fortunately, this rite of passage was short-lived. With my mother leaning over my shoulder, I gently tugged at the hangers on a rack of gowns at our first stop. About halfway through the collection I discovered “the dress.” Fashioned from a creamy ivory satin, it was both simple and elegant. A floor-length design with long sleeves, it was the perfect option for a winter wedding. The bodice had a spray of delicate pearl beading. The sleeves sported eight silk buttons at the wrist. The modest scoop neckline was matched by an equally conservative train. I had found my needle in the bridal salon haystack. Believe me when I say, it was a relief for all involved.

After the wedding my mother offered to have the gown professionally cleaned and stored. I wasn’t sure what else to do, so I acquiesced. Upon its return from a specialty cleaner, my mother placed the sealed box in the closet of my childhood bedroom. And there it remained for 25 years.

When my mother died, my brother and I sifted through my parents’ belongings. It was a small 1950s ranch house, replete with its original linoleum, laminate red countertops and a rotary phone that still hung from the kitchen wall.

Despite its diminutive size, every nook and cranny of the house was filled to the brim. After a few Saturday morning yard sales and a hefty donation to Goodwill, all that remained were the pieces that tugged at our hearts: my father’s WWII uniform, the knife my mother used to make our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and my wedding gown.

On the day before the house was to be sold, I pulled into the driveway one final time. Wandering down the hall to my former bedroom, I pressed my shoulder blades against the yellowed wallpaper and slowly sank to the ground. I’m not sure how long I sat in that empty room, but eventually I got up and turned the knob on the closet…