Save the Last Dress from Me

I knew what dress I’d have picked if Celia had asked me to choose. But she didn’t. She asked Mother instead.
 
Mother nodded in her usual competent way, then walked to the oak armoire with her usual confident stride. She paused then, as she never did. She opened the door slowly. Almost timidly. Not like herself.
 
We watched in silence, Celia and I, her hand in mine as Mother stood, immobile, before the three perfectly pressed dresses hanging inside the armoire. She closed the doors and walked away, busying herself with rearranging pills and refreshing water glasses and changing the music and opening and closing windows.
 
Celia had always been a pragmatist, so most of her clothing had been given away long since. She’d fought as long as she could, but she rarely fought battles she couldn’t win, so when the doctor told her there was no more time to buy, no more chemo to be had, she set about planning her goodbyes. On her own terms. As always. She gave away furniture and clothing and books and art. Even the armoire had a sticky note with my name on it. She’d had parties. So many parties. Letters and cards and pictures and tears and laughter. She did it all. Then she shrank her world into what she needed. Only what she needed. It wasn’t much.
 
Six times Mother opened and closed the armoire before she reached inside to pull out a dress. It didn’t seem to matter which; or it shouldn’t. They were all lovely. But I was glad she chose the green one. I’d given it to Celia when she mentioned that all her clothes showed the scar on her collarbone. Back when such things mattered.
 
Mother folded the dress carefully, slowly, smoothing each fold once, twice. She placed it lightly in the otherwise-empty hospice bag.
 
She left the room, hand trailing the wall to steady her gait.
 
We heard her muffled sobs.
 
“Go to her,” Celia said. “She’ll need you now.”