DRESSING UP

We always put things by –

my new jumper,

the silver bracelet

that Christmas brought,

disappeared into the musty chest of drawers

to be saved for best,

appearing later at an event

deemed ‘special’ enough,

as slightly tarnished

or too short round the sleeves.

Two months after her funeral,

I sort through my mother’s clothes;

she who wore nothing but practical dark colours,

all browns, black and navy blues

that wouldn’t show the dirt

made by a large family’s

continual demands of her,

had drawers full of pinks and reds

in silk and muslin,

all marvellously impractical –

and still in their original wrapping.