Linda Hansell

When I was finally able to face the task of emptying my mother’s closets after she passed away, I kept two of her bathrobes for myself.  The two robes could not be more different. One is a lightweight, summer cotton seersucker robe with a bold pattern of large, eye-popping, brightly-colored flowers spattered on a bright white background. It looks like a painting, reflective of my mother’s love of art. The other is a pale-blue, super-soft, cozy, flannel winter bathrobe with heft and warmth. 

The summer robe, with its splashy, just-this-side-of-garish design, screams, “Look at me!” It epitomizes my mother. Her desire to be stylish (even in her bathrobe) and her desire to be noticed defined her, creating a barrier between us. With her attention focused on outward appearances, she didn’t let her inner self be seen, even by her only daughter. She never spoke of her feelings, and she kept many secrets, wanting to present a picture-perfect version of herself and her family to the world.

The cozy winter robe epitomizes the mother I wish I’d had— a warm, supportive confidant in whose arms I could be snugly wrapped. Sadly, this was not our mother-daughter relationship. The repeated stings of her judgment and criticism took the place of soothing arms or easy-going chats.

The yin-and-yang of the two robes—colorful print and solid washed-out paleness; light and heavy, summer and winter--remind me of my two mothers—the one I had, and the one I became for myself. When I wrap myself in the summer robe, I absorb my mother’s flair for color and life. When I wrap myself in the fuzzy cocoon of the light-blue flannel, I embrace myself, flaws and all.