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The black jumpsuit probably.

Maybe it would be too much. It’s more of a dinner party outfit. Palazzo pants and jewel-encrusted cuffs feel more appropriate for throwing a wine glass than mourning your mother. Then again, she believed in showing up dressed better than the occasion called for. “Better to be the nicest dressed in the room than the worst.”

She was a doctor, but most of my strongest memories of my mother involve clothes. Which makes no sense, because I’m your female friend who hates shopping. I mean… I hate shopping. I remember sitting underneath the clothes carousels at Nordstrom or J.C. Penney at age eight, sighing loudly while my mother browsed sensible office blouses for another thirty minutes. The salesladies knew her well enough to greet her with a hug. When I was in my twenties, I’d come home for a visit, crying over some idiot. (It’s Los Angeles. There’s always some idiot. And you’re always crying.) She’d look me over and then say firmly, “Let’s go buy you some new bras.” After she’d marched me through the entirety of the nicer underwear racks, she’d smile and say, “Now you have something nice to show off when you meet the next man.” Meaning there’d better be a next man. Not this one. …


Elizabeth Hackett

Screenwriter. Redhead. Don’t tell my parents I’m on here.

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