My mother’s closet is my Macy’s. When I need to find a nice outfit for work or something dressy for a night out I shop in mom’s. I have been a dweller in mom’s closet since I can remember, her closet displays endless possibilities like an ice cream flavors at an ice cream shop. Even now, I rummage through her closet finding gems from decades before, endless styles hang promptly in the same order categorized by style and brand. I love my clothes, but her clothes are priceless; the style of southern belles is sophisticated.

In a Sunday dress, my mom is graceful, matching pumps and colored skin tights, make a composed fashion statement. Shades of blacks, blues, reds, and pastels are the colors of class and poise. Ralph Lauren and Talbots, a signature brand, was made for women like her, tailored and well made you know dry clean only. In comparison to my closet, quality reigns supreme in favor of my mother’s.

Below the clothes on the floor are boxes of shoes stacked neatly, displaying the brand and the shoe size. If you swing all the clothes to the left, dresses covered in sturdy plastic are hidden… these clothes are the best and the most expensive. As a kid, I would try on my mother’s leather jacket carefully unwrapping the plastic, putting on one sleeve at a time, making I didn’t crinkle the leather. After I put on the jacket I would rushed to the mirror twirl and laugh practicing my poses. I wanted to be as stylish and as beautiful as her.

The style she inherited from her mother’s mother, past down to me, generations of fabric woven to fit every womanly curve evenly became important to me. Slipping into her designer heels made me feel like a runway model even my feet were lost in the pump. I felt like somebody. I remember the magic I felt wearing my mother’s clothes and her lipstick as young girl.

Of course, I smeared the lipstick on my cheeks and chin, I tried to be graceful, but clumsy hands could not hold still for detail. But I did not care. I wanted to look like the women in Hecht’s catalog. At that age, her closet was nostalgic. Today as a young woman, I ask my mother. “Can I please borrow a shirt.”

Sometimes, I ask to borrow a dress or a pair of stockings. Paint suits are off limits. I should have asked my mother a dose of sophistication as well, that’s what I was after waiting for sandpaper to polish my edge revealing a diamond. Every time I put on mom’s clothes I receive many compliments, I can imagine them saying. “How could a young woman have such great taste.” Smiling I would think it is my mother’s and mine. Rummaging through my mother’s clothes made me realize I admire her as a woman too.

To me, transitioning to womanhood had been scary, but somehow wearing these clothes made womanhood less intimidating. Her closet is very dear to me; no one can wear her clothes as well as she can. I wear the satin blouses and delicate dress feeling like the woman I’m supposed to be: A classy woman with a modern twist.