Go Away

It sits in the back of my closet, and has for twelve years and seven months. It’s in front of my wedding dress, behind my third favorite cocktail dress. It’s black, unembellished, and utterly forgettable.

Twenty two year old me was moving up in the world. 2008 was a good year for me. Twenty two year old me was going places. Twenty two year old me had decided that it was time to look as good on the outside as I felt on the inside. So to the mall I went. I wanted to look classy and sophisticated, even though I reserved those words in my heart for those who lived on the right coast and I was stuck in the Midwest. I read that a Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress would be the lynchpin of my wardrobe. That there was nothing classier than one, and I’d have it for decades. That wasn’t wrong.

I bought the dress at considerable expense in one long line of uninterrupted black Jersey. Black, to me, at age twenty two, was the height of sophistication. I took it home to my house share, the one where my share of rent was 1/4 of what I just paid for this dress. I told myself it was an investment in the future I wanted to have.

The next morning, I woke up to the call and the dress was pressed into duty for the first time a few days later. Not only was it the perfect sophisticated dress of my dreams, it was the perfect funeral dress.

It went back in the closet, at the front of my dresses. I kept waiting for the moment to arise to wear the dress, but one funeral became two, became five, and suddenly five years had passed and it was “the funeral dress”. It moved further and further back in the closet, until it was the least used item there, barring my wedding dress. Black on white.

In March, the dress started moving up. My grandmother’s death early on in the pandemic was the first use. We were still able to go to funerals in person then. The next funeral for a coworker in May, from COVID, was on zoom. I pulled out the black dress, examined it, thought about whether zoom funerals counted as black dress worthy, and put it on.

And so the dress became not only a funeral dress, but also a virtual funeral dress. My southern grandma taught me that your appearance was a mark of respect for those around you. She didn’t put on a clean dress and makeup every day for herself, I don’t think, but for the people she interacted with. She fed her beloved birds in revlon, and dug her garden wearing diamond studs. She was an old school classy lady- unafraid to get dirty and face a challenge, but by God, her face was going to be done while she did it. I took the same care with these funerals as in person. I showered, put my hair in Velcro rollers, put on sober makeup, put on my mother’s heirloom pearl necklace, and finally... the dress.

Three more times the dress moved up in the closet. It overtook my cocktail dresses, it overtook my selection of business suits, it moved up and up past the casual sundresses, past the daily use button up shirts. Eventually, the black dress was at the far left of my closet with my favorite tops and trousers. But the favorite tops and trousers gathered dust. Now, I lived in an old pair of denim and an alma mater sweatshirt.

I need my funeral dress to go out of style. One day, the dress will begin making its way back and back, until it rests in front of my wedding dress again. My black dress, bought with such high hopes, was like 2020. December 31, 2019 flourished with “bring back the roaring 20s” sentiment, a bright, welcoming light through the sludge and darkness we perceived the teens to be. Birks and socks, high waisted pants, ruffled button up- all can stay. Wear your pants on your head, for all it means to me. But please, adopt the mask trend and help me put my funeral dress to the back of the closet again.