Before You Burn It All Down....

In June of 1995 I got married in a beautiful Priscilla of Boston wedding gown.  I found it in the first bridal magazine I had ever bought, love at first sight. I'd have bought that gown in a heartbeat without ever even trying it on.

In 2018 my marriage ended.  Among the things that my ex-husband brought to me from our attic was the box that held my wedding gown.  My emotions were still raw then. I looked at the box holding the gown that my mother had had so carefully preserved. I thought of the care she'd taken with all things bridal for me.  I knew that people destroyed their dresses after a divorce.  I knew that "wreck the dress" was a "thing".  I knew that people gleefully burned their dresses as a symbol of a new start. 

 I also knew that none of that was me. "I could give it away", I thought, yet I didn't.

The box took up residence in my basement where I didn't have to see it all the time, where I wouldn't feel pressed to make any decisions. And there it stayed until this past November when my sump pump failed and my basement flooded.

I was already mentally and emotionally exhausted from pandemic living when the waters rose. I just stood there and looked, fighting back tears. My daughter came down to look around.  And that's when she found the box. "What's this?" Her eyes lit up at my response. Shouldn't we open it and check it she asked?  I told her yes, I supposed we should.

She brought it upstairs, tore it open, grinning with sheer delight. "Can I try it on? Please??" 

Why not baby girl. I left the room to let her change and waited for her to call me back in.

When I opened that door again I saw a luminous young lady where I'd so often in the last year seen an anxious teen. "It fits me! I thought it would be dated but it's not, it's beautiful, I love it, can I keep it?!"

Suddenly I was back in the bridal shop with my mother, my grandmothers and my best friend. My grandmothers were mock bickering as was their habit, a habit that I enjoyed thoroughly and miss dearly. I saw my best friend twirling in a parade of bridesmaids gowns, delighted with how she looked in them. I saw my mother fretting over the lowcut illusion neckline, asking the shop owner if we could have more embroidery added, wanting this dress to be absolutely perfect for me.

As my daughter beamed at herself in the mirror turning from side to side to see every angle, I saw my father at the church, happier and prouder than I'd ever seen him. I saw my Uncle Daniel walking towards me with a plate of  hors d'oeuvres, muttering that through all the picture taking someone had to make sure that his goddaughter had something to eat.  I heard my Uncle James laughing about the van he called the refrigerator, that he had rented to drive all my cousins up from Florida in. (I'd give anything to hear that laugh again.) 

I saw my family, all but my father's father, all together for what would be the last time.

My daughter started asking me questions about relationships and marriages, sharing observations and concerns.  She asked if I was sorry I'd gotten married. Without hesitation I explained that, no, I couldn't be. Marriage had made me her mother, and I'd choose that again in a thousand alternate universes were they offered to me. 

On that rainy, gloomy day in November, when I was tired to my very soul, that dress brought my joyful daughter back to me.

So yes, honey, yes you can keep that dress. That dress is love and laughter. That dress is hope and beauty. That dress is the gateway to your birth, your childhood, your bright and boundless future.

It hangs in her closet now. I see it every time I hang clean clothes up for her. I have never been more grateful for a flood in all my life.

To any woman currently worrying over a box holding a wedding dress, I send love and compassion and urge you to do what's right for you. But please, please think twice about the full gamut of memories it holds before burning them all down.