Treasures kept in a hope chest.

Prussian blue sleeves change first to turquoise and then cobalt blue as the threads in the gown paint a picture. Yellowed ivory blends with lemon showcasing a dusky sparrow who sits atop pussy willows. My mother’s kimono is a delicate blend of blue and yellow hues.

Seams have ripped at the shoulders where giggling delighted girls have extended their arms into one side while hurridly pulling at the sleeves. Handmade for a tall frame, the excess folds of the dress pooled around our feet.

The Lane cedar chest was filled with boxes and the buried treasures of her youth. Included was the yellowed baptismal gown and her baby doll Rosemary as well as countless ribbons, napkins, and matchboxes from women’s business sorority conventions collected over a working career.

The kimono had been a gift from Edward, my mother’s first-fiancé stationed in Japan during World War II. Correspondence from him had been carefully organized in a box. Other gifts included an ivory carved brooch from the Hakusui Ivory Company kept in a red brocade box and a set of pearls rigidly anchored in a pink trifold case.

As a junior hostess at the United Services Organization aka the USO club, my mother had met many soldiers. Her volunteer job included dancing with the soldiers, writing letters for them and conversation. It was at the USO that my mother met Edward.

My sisters and I never grew tired of trying on the kimono or hearing about Edward. We would beg our mother to put on the kimono and sometimes she would. She always looked so beautiful with her dark black hair, pale skin, and blue eyes but then she would get misty-eyed and quickly take it off.

None of us asked my mother why she kept all of her gifts and treasures from Edward long after her romance with him had ended. My mother was extremely devoted to her Catholic faith and was not willing to marry outside of the church, even for Edward.

My parent’s marriage, although sanctioned and blessed in the church, was not a happy one. My father was a functional alcoholic, but my mother enabled his disease to prosper. My mother had rage storms against her children, and my father had alcoholic tantrums. To the world we functioned as a showcase family; attending church on Sunday, accelerating at Catholic school.

My mother’s kimono is nestled in soft tissue on a shelf in my spare room. I keep her treasures to remind me of those still moments when my siblings and I visited the hope chest, and all seemed right with our world.