The Dress

Lulu loved watching her mother sew. It was a delicate art, weaving needle and thread to join two parts of cloth together and creating intricate embroideries. Lulu herself tried to imitate what she saw – under her mother’s guidance – only twice before she’d had enough of pricking herself with the fine needle. Instead, she was perfectly content sitting on the arm of the old sofa, peering over her mother’s shoulder as she worked in the rocking chair. She would draw the focused look her mother’s face had as she worked, and her nimble hands. She was an artist, too, she just preferred an art form with less risk of injury. Often she would sketch designs for her mother who in turn would transform them to reality.

Nothing Lulu ever saw out in the world compared to her mother’s designs, but she liked taking inspiration from the shape of a skirt or the shiny material used on a dress she would see at the store or in a magazine.

When she turned eighteen, Lulu and her mother officially joined forces, creating a simple business based on Lulu’s drawings and her mother’s craftsmanship. They mostly sold to friends and locals, and they were happy doing so. To honor their partnership, Lulu’s mother gifted her the best dress yet, based on a years-old sketch buried in her things. It was blush pink and decorated with ornate floral detailing.

Her mother continued to sew her beautiful dresses and skirts and shirts and pants, and Lulu continued designing garments, but none would ever come close to the dress. She adored it more than anything in the world. She wore it at home, she wore it to the beach, she wore it to run errands, she wore it to dances. 

She fell in love in it. She would have gotten married in it too, if her mother hadn’t sewn her an (almost) equally beautiful wedding gown. Some said she wanted to be buried in it, but she collapsed during a disorderly house move and no one could find which box she had stored it in.

Poppy’s mother always taught her to cherish clothes. Not a seamstress herself; she had many friends in the industry and knew in detail the toil that went into crafting a garment. Poppy was always instructed to wear her clothes often and with pride, because someone else had put a lot of love and effort into piecing them together. 

Where Poppy lived, everyone always had the newest everything. Her mother wasn’t like that, either out of necessity or mindfulness, so Poppy mostly stuck to what she already owned, or what had already been owned. At first, she was embarrassed. She was good at observing the other kids, counting how many times they’d rewear an item, and calculating the turnaround time for what was trendy and what was out of style. Over the years it seemed that time grew briefer and briefer, and Poppy grew to understand her mother’s slower approach at life. 

She didn’t really care about fashion. What was the point, after all, if she could never buy the newest and most fashionable things. She had clothes on her back, and that was what mattered.

As a teenager, however, she discovered a love of clothing. Every few months she would receive a small allowance to spend at the local secondhand shop. She would spend hours exploring the many rows of the store – one of the only place she was allowed to shop – feeling the decades old fabrics. Often, she wouldn’t buy anything at all. Her mother made sure she had all the necessities, and the rest Poppy collected through birthdays and holidays. She spent her time at the store studying the outfits on the mannequins, rushing home to recreate them to the best of her ability with clothing she already had. She loved the challenge.

As a result of her frugality, her allowance mostly sat in a drawer, slowly accumulating. She didn’t even consider it when she made her regular trip to the secondhand shop a few months before her high school graduation. She wanted to examine the fancier dresses they had, perhaps sketch them down. She’d received a sewing machine as a hand-me-down from a relative and had planned to make the dress from scratch.

The store changed out the window display every month or so, but with exams Poppy hadn’t really paid it any mind. She always noted how the mannequins were dressed, but this day one particular dress caught her eye. 

It certainly wasn’t up to current trends; it must have been at least twenty years old. Still, it was hard to date, even with Poppy’s extensive fashion knowledge. It was hard to look away from.

There was a magical air to it, perhaps because of the sheer overlay that added a mystical shimmer to the dress. She stared at it, enamored, before running home to collect her wallet of saved up cash.

She wore it beyond graduation of course. The moment she’d put it on it felt like a match made in heaven. She had never seen such embroideries and her mother’s voice echoed in her head, reminding her the love that goes into such a craft. After four years of university, she wore it again to receive her diploma, and again and again after that. 

She was visiting her hometown and beloved secondhand store when she met a woman that complimented her dress, and from there they got to know each other. They soon got married.

Poppy, too, would have been buried in the dress if she could justify it, but she knew it was too precious a piece to be subject to eternity underground. When it started to grow tight at the seams and she feared she would tear her most prized possession, she finally acquired a mannequin of her own and kept it on display. She tried her best to replicate the dress, but she was never quite able to capture something about its extraordinary nature. She wasn’t sad; it was enough to be able to admire it day in and day out until she passed.

Maisy was a shopaholic. She loved to shop and she did it often. She loved the thrill of bringing a hoard of bags home with new clothing. She loved knowing she was on trend. She liked to think she was living in the golden age of fashion. She could drive to the mall and buy four t-shirts for less than $20 total. Better yet, she could browse through online catalogs and have 10 new outfits for less than $100 lined up in her cart before the school bell even rang. It was exhilarating from the moment she pressed purchase to waiting for the package to arrive at her doorstep. It was a consumerist utopia and she was a professional.

She had 10k on Instagram, growing every day of course. She fancied herself a trendsetter, though she would never be seen in last week’s outfit, obviously. She loved the clothes, but nothing beat the rush of the credit card charge, or showing to the world – or at least, 10,000 people, give or take – that she could rock a unique look every day. 

Most days she came home, thrilled to see a familiar pile of boxes waiting with her name on them. She’d spend at least two hours trying each brand-new outfit on and planning her Instagram feed for the next week before stuffing them inside her packed wardrobe.

Her parents had always encouraged her love of fashion. Since she was young, she’d present fashion shows to her family. It was her mother that fuelled her shopping addiction, really, feeding into her love of clothing by taking her to the mall weekly as a kid.

Consequently, she didn’t see it coming when her parents cut her off. Suddenly, according to her folks, she had a shopping problem, and her generous weekly shopping allowance was reduced to zero. It was her worst nightmare come true. 

She had to attend school in repeated outfits, and she didn’t dare show her face on social media. She watched despairingly as her follower count diminished, while her parents attempted to distract her by encouraging her to look through her closet. They seemed concerned that, in their words, with everything she already owned, she still wanted more to be happy.

She’d never really taken the time to look through her closet. She had a routine, which involved purchasing, photographing, public display twice maximum, before it got tossed in the closet. Admittedly, the wardrobe had reached an intimidating level of inventory. She was almost afraid to open it, and for good reason. When she finally mustered up the courage to open the doors, the clothes that came tumbling out covered her bedroom floor. 

Over the years, Maisy had accumulated a collection of clothing practically as large as the online catalogs she shopped. Some items she hardly recognized, having worn them only a handful of times, if that, years prior. She realized her situation wasn’t so bad. If she couldn’t shop new, she could at least shop her closet.

Eventually she resumed her Instagram account, and to her surprise no one seemed to mind that she rewore the clothing she owned. No one at school cared either. She began enjoying the process of finding new ways to wear old clothes, even if she occasionally missed the dopamine rush of a day spent shopping.

Years later, Maisy was apartment hunting and found herself in front of an aged building, a sign indicating that an estate sale was going on. Maisy didn’t really picture herself finding anything, but she was curious about what the inside looked like.

The auctioneer was eager to sell anything and everything to Maisy, who apparently was the only person to stop by for the day. She was told the life story of two women, one of which had been very invested in fashion, noting and complimenting Maisy’s personal style. Despite how much it had evolved, Maisy had trouble imagining she would find anything in the collection of a woman well over 90. 

It was bizarre walking through the home of the recently deceased women. Maisy wandered into the bedroom, which felt most somber. The bed was neatly made and curtains drawn open, as if the couple had simply woken up this morning, tidied up, and gone about their day. An ancient looking sewing machine sat on a desk, and behind the desk by the window was a mannequin with a stunning dress on.

Maisy felt drawn to it as if a spell had been cast on her; it was like nothing she’d ever seen.. 

The dress flowed off the mannequin, sparkling in the sunlight seeping through the window. The closer she got, the more she could see incredibly detailed embroideries across the body of the dress. It was a shade of pink she couldn’t quite put her finger on, only slightly faded with age. 

She took it home, at a steal of a price. She soon found an apartment, and was tempted to display it as the previous owner had, but it fit her like a glove and she could hardly envision herself ever taking it off. Maisy had grown to appreciate each piece that she owned, but none were loved like the dress. 

After ages of owning and loving the dress, thinking she’d scrutinized every detail, Maisy discovered something new. As she hung it up to dry, she noticed the hand-stitched tag, marked Lulu Jennings. 

Just like her predecessors, Maisy Jennings found a reason to wear the dress as much as possible. She felt invincible when she wore it, feeling it had found its way to her for a reason.

Maisy raised a daughter who loved fashion, vintage especially. When she turned eighteen, Maisy passed on the dress, on the condition that her daughter continue the tradition and pass it on to her own children. Her daughter dutifully promised she that would, and the Jennings dress lived on, always appreciated, always loved.