2019-07-15 - A Moth-Eaten Memory

Curled up next to Ruiz on the twin-sized bottom bunk, in her childhood bedroom Dahlia wanted to sleep. The alcohol was lazily rolling through her. Her eyelids felt heavy, but she closed her eyes and sleep didn’t want to come. Her mind twisted and turned with what she was starting to learn and what had happened. Her hands curl tighter against Ruiz’s shirt, head nestled in the crook of his shoulder. He smelled like smoke, liquor , and vaguely citrusy. It was a comforting smell.

Everything about him was comforting and familiar. She tried to commit the feeling to memory, because this was likely the closest they’d ever be again. For all the pain and heartache they had put each other through, a small part of Dahlia’s alcohol addled mind wanted him back. Wanted to try things again. But no. Not now. Likely not ever. It was just safer that way, wasn’t it? Honestly Shedidn't know if it was him she missed or the nature of the relationship.

Dahlia sighed softly and opened her eyes. Studying Ruiz’s sleeping frame in the inky darkness for a few quiet moments. Then she released him and started to carefully get off the bed so as to not wake him up. She couldn’t sleep, so she would work. Venturing back into her mother’s bedroom, Dahlia turned on the light and set about emptying the rest of the drawers and the closet of her mother’s clothing.

Garbage bags were brought in from the kitchen and the clothing was sorted. Goodwill and Garbage went into bags. Certain pieces stayed on the bed. Clothes that Dahlia wanted a closer look at because it’s not like she’d ever really sat and looked in her mother’s wardrobe before.

It was nearing dawn when Dahlia finally finished. The bags of clothing were dragged into the living room. Glancing at the time, she started up a pot of coffee -mostly for Ruiz- and then went back into the bedroom. Aside a few dresses and shirts, the main thing Dahlia wanted to see was her mother’s wedding dress.

Martha Evergreen had been a hard worker. A hairstylist and heavy smoker. Never drank and always went to church on Sundays even though she never made the kids go with her. Always told the kids to avoid smoking and doing drugs even though they’d all heard her tell the stories of mishaps and hijinks during her teenage and young adult years. She had been a good woman and Dahlia liked to think she lived a good life. Her fingers slowly rubbed over the cream colored lace of the dress. It had an A-line shoulder and a silver cinch in the waist area. It had been a beautiful dress at one time. It was dusty and moth-eaten in places now.

Maybe I should try to fix it. Dahlia didn’t want to throw the dress away or donate it. No one else would appreciate the woman who owned it or the memories that in conjured. She just wished her father hadn’t been such a deadbeat. Martha had to have seen something in him. Dahlia had seen photos in the scrapbooks her mother kept. They looked happy, like they adored each other. She wanted someone to look at her the way her father had looked at her mother in those early years. Dahlia never really knew why he left, she was so young when he did and it just didn’t ever seem like an important thing to know.

Dahlia decided she would go to the craft store soon and get what was needed to fix the dress. Restore it to its former glory. Even if it sat in a closet for another twenty years, at least she would have something good of her mothers. Something to hang on to. Because it was very likely everything else was going to end up the way of the clothing bags. Donated or Dumped.