I am not her

When my aunt died, or sometime afterward, I got a few of her things. Among these were two long, floral dresses: a blue and green Laura Ashley one and a more form-fitting pink one.

Despite the fact that my aunt's shape was not like mine (she surpassed me in height and cup size if nothing else) I've worn both quite a bit over my adult years - the extra fabric hidden by sweaters or jackets. They remind me so much of her, of her figure and her tan skin, of her easy, colorful clothes and San Diego home - all the floral patterns that seemed odd to me juxtaposed as they were with her dark, dry humor.

But it was that strange combination that added to her allure - like my confidence that she was a devoted Christian and my complete intimidation, even fear, of her. She seemed to me remarkably strong and capable and sure of herself. I was none of the things as long as I knew her. Like my mother I was timid, shy and emotional. Strangely to me, she was my mother's best friend. I have always fervently admired my aunt but I never, ever, while she was living thought we could have been confidants. Now that I look back, a much changed person - a woman - and one that was significantly influenced by the memory of my closest aunt, I think differently about the possibilities of our relationship and am so curious to see her again, though I can't imagine how much about us will be changed.

I've considered hanging on to these dresses, as they are, forever. I fear what my mom would say to an alternative - maybe I will. I've thought, 'Maybe after a baby I could fill out the bodice.' But my aunt bought the dress at least a decade ago, maybe two. It is hopelessly out-of-date. She lived then, I live now.

And though I was once, for a short time, a tan, blonde Californian like her the bright pinks and oranges now look a little strange next to my pale, Oregon-bound skin and my short, dark hair. The long skirt hides my short, but shapely legs and makes them feel all the shorter (and unshapely).

I am not her. But I remember her. And I love her, and she is a part of who I am.

I am not my mother but I feel so much like her as I get older. I've even cut my hair short, like she's always had. But I look as much like my dad as I do my mother. And I know that I am just me.

As I continue to struggle to figure out who this is I struggle to figure out what to do with things like an old dress. I don't trust myself to make the decision, or to cut the lifeline something like that represents. Will I still remember her as well? And what if I don't?

Do I hold too fast to my memories?

Is my decision based on love, or fear?

She is a part of who I am. One day I'll know what that means. I don't need to look back to see her, I will see her again.