THE GREEN VELVET SKIRT
“I didn’t try it on until the day before our photos.”
My mother, Laura McCormick, died instantly when a drunk driver collided with her car outside Terre Haute, Indiana, on September 27, 1983. She was 28. I was 3. In our final family photo—the one that would later be paired with her obituary—she wore a cream lace-trimmed blouse and hunter-green velvet prairie skirt. Both were by Jessica’s Gunnies, a predecessor of the late designer Jessica McClintock’s Gunne Sax brand. In the photo, Mom looks radiant. Her skin glows and her thick brown hair is—just like her posture—perfect. In my floral pinafore and black leather T-strap shoes, I lean into her, my left hand just grazing her skirt.
Thirty-seven years later, I live in Golden, CO—married and the mother of a 6-year old boy. Last December, wanting to end 2020 on a bright note, with family photos, I combed my wardrobe for an outfit that wouldn’t make me look as worn out as I felt. Tucked in the corner of my closet, I found Mom’s skirt. I have held onto a number of my mother’s possessions—her teenage diary, the purse she was carrying the day of the crash, her rings (which I had remade into my wedding ring)—but none jolts me with the faint memory of my original family and the feeling of what could have been in quite the same way as the skirt.
I didn’t try it on until the day before our photos. I was afraid the skirt that fit a 28-year-old wouldn’t fit a 40-year-old, but with the top button undone, I managed. I paired it with a light grey merino wool turtleneck and brown leather riding boots. My husband, son, and I made our way to Golden History Park. I carefully arranged the drape of the skirt as we perched in front of a miner-era log cabin and smiled.
Though I was raised by my dad and a remarkable stepmom, I spent much of my adult life feeling I’d been cheated out of the thing every child should know: their mother’s love. But when I became a mother myself, my view shifted, away from me and onto her. Did she experience the same fears I did when bringing home a newborn? Did she wake up and frantically paw at the blankets, terrified that her baby had become entangled? Did she toss and turn with worry that kidnappers might take me from her? Or that a terminal illness might take her from me? I understood, viscerally, the agony she would have felt if she knew she’d have to leave me so early.
But Mom, I made it. I'm happy. You’d be proud of me. I live in the foothills of the glorious Rocky Mountains. I work with Dad at his insurance business. I have a husband I love. And we have a beautiful child who, with luck, might someday remember his mother's green velvet skirt.
—Meghan McCormick Eddy
Meghan Eddy is a mom, wife and marketing professional in Golden, CO. Her writing has appeared in Indianapolis Monthly and The Indianapolis Star.