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Mom waxed nostalgic! She had our christening dresses taken out of storage, hand washed and carefully dried out in the sun on the clothesline in front of the house. She even had her wedding dress taken out, too. It was soaked in soapy water to take out all the dirt of the many years past.

She was teary-eyed looking at all those tiny dresses. I can imagine the thoughts crossing her mind, though of course I do not pretend to grasp the depth of emotions that came with all those memories

I can't help feeling a sense of awe at how our tiny dresses have withstood the relentless passing of years. They look as though they were only two years old at most! Mama's wedding dress was equally awe-inspiring. I have snatched glimpses of that revered dress when I was younger and I remembered thinking of all the painstaking work it took to finish the dress. The bodice was heavily sequined and Mama did all the work by hand on her own. I had secretly put it on on at least one occasion, marveling at its weight. I said to myself then that I would not labor as much on my wedding dress. As I grew older, I thought that it had, (to my mind) foreshadowed all the hardship and the work she would have to put in to hold the marriage and our family together.

A lot of questions came up as I gazed at the dresses. I asked and was in turn given answers, some I didn't want to hear. Some I've heard before but had poised the questions again anyway, hoping that the answers would be different or that it would lead to untold, half-forgotten incident but was let down to hear the same. Some answers were new and would take other questions for the entire story to unfold.

Mama was thoughtful and restless. She patiently sat outside as our tiny, lacy dresses dried. The day was warm but windy and it was one of those rare days when it we all sat at home relaxing. As soon as they were dry, Mama carefully placed them in clear plastic bags with mothballs, all the time seeming distracted.

I thought about my younger sister's lost dress; the photographs that ought to have been taken but were not; the ones that were taken but were now gone. Each have stories to tell, secret memories, cherished ones memento.

It is true that each of us remain part strangers even to those who love us. So much stories to tell, memories to share. In that one afternoon, looking at cherished little dresses of now grown women, I was given precious glimpses into a life that has nourished mine.

Learn more about this author, Maria Sheila Chou.
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