I dreamed about my mother again last night. It’s the second time this week. I dreamed about her not as the plump, gray haired grandma she was in the last years of her life, but as a young woman I don’t think I ever knew.
She was wearing denim pedal pushers and a gleaming white, sleeveless, button down blouse with a Peter Pan collar. She was walking away from me, not even aware that I was there or watching her. And it struck me that I had never seen my mother in jeans before!
A funny thing to think.
I wasn’t surprised at her age or appearance, just the fact that I never knew either of my parents to wear jeans.
I remember my mother bought my father a pair of Levi’s sometime in the sixties. She thought they would replace the worn out army khakis he used to wear whenever he was doing something messy around the house, like wallpapering.
They sat neatly folded in his bureau drawer. When I was emptying their house after she died, there they were, still neatly folded with the tags on.
It had been ten years since he died and all his other clothes had long since been given away.
I often wonder why she kept them.
File this under: I have nothing to say and I say it regularly.