Serial Griever: Clothes and Goodbyes

Pleasing parents everywhere, this week, I have brought my sister, Rebecca, along for my final column piece in The Saint. As with all siblings, our relationship has changed as we have gotten older, and things like sharing clothes have overtaken fighting over toys as the prevalent issues in our lives. As such, a pivotal bonding point in our grief has been sorting through our mother’s extensive and well-thought-out wardrobe, and we are still only halfway through. 

The decision was made early on that both of us would proudly wear her clothes, jewellery, cowboy boots, and leather jackets. This is something that might have felt weird to us before, but it has become the truest source of comfort while also increasing our respective Glasgow and St Andrews street styles. I asked Rebecca about her own thoughts on this: “It feels only right that we both carry a piece of her with us — literally. Wearing her clothes has become something quietly powerful. It’s like slipping into a memory. Some mornings, I’ll put on one of her jumpers and feel braver. Other days, it’s just for comfort. It’s strange how something as simple as a cardigan can make you feel held. We’ve laughed over some of her more questionable fashion choices and cried over the ones that still hold her scent. Sometimes we would disagree over who gets what, Tasha wanted the brown cowboy boots — she eventually caved on that battle — but even that feels like a form of love. A love for her wardrobe is a love for her. Her style was bold and vibrant yet also chic and classy. In a way, we’re learning more about her, and about ourselves, with every outfit. We’ve started styling things our own way, mixing her pieces into our lives, like building up a map that helps us find our way back to her memory.” 

Some people may call this materialistic or trivialise our connection to physical items, but, reflecting on this, I find real beauty in the way both of our styles evolved to include a piece of her. The physicality of owning her clothes, wearing her clothes, and spilling prosecco on clothes she would have spilt prosecco on, is something to be cherished. If people dress to define who they want to be and who they are, I am proud to be defined by my mother’s clothes.

As this is my last column piece ever in St Andrews, I just want to pop a little thank you: Thank you, Saint readers, for entering my stream of consciousness and for following me along this little part of my journey.