The Orange Nightie

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My daughter casually flung the nightie at me saying, “Here, you wear nighties much more than I do, you take it.” My heart shattered into a thousand little bits. The ‘nightie’ was old, faded, worn out, fit to be thrown out really or torn up and used as cleaning cloths like we did back home. But it was the nightie that she had taken from me ,what, four years ago so she could feel close to me. She wasn’t much of a nightie-wearer even then but she wore it because I did, it was a tie between us, almost like a secret language of love and closeness. At least that’s what I thought.
Now she had been married a year, has a husband who adores her and whom she adores. Also she’s older, wiser and not a kid anymore! And she’s outgrown the nightie.
But to have it flung as though it had already been made into a rag? Like I was a rag now? No longer the longed for Mama who lived far away. No longer the adored mother. I am in a period of transition trying to find my feet in this new world because I know there will be love here too, only different and above all I do not want to get left behind high and dry sulking for the old world.
So this morning when the sleeves of my black nightie got wet while washing the dishes I got out of it and put on the old worn orange one. And all the angst disappeared. The life went out of the pain and there was left a lightness and ever so little I inched into the new world.