There is nothing quite like the elegance of my mother's friends. It is unparalleled.
I recently attended a funeral mass for the sister of one of my mother's friends. These women are mostly in their seventies. Not one of them looks it. They are not all pinned and tucked. They are not all stitched and stuck. They are simply elegant; women from an era that no longer exists or is even remembered by this generation.
My mother came from Cuba in 1960. She was an adult by then, and had grown up surrounded by wealth and luxury, spending her time at the Havana Yacht Club and having her photo printed in the papers after every social event. This is the life she was born into. Even after moving to Miami, she remained friends with the same girls she had grown up with. Theirs is a lifelong friendship, one that continues to this day despite her passing 20 years ago.
I will never forget watching them all as I grew up. I dreamt of one day being old enough to wear my mother's clothing; her shoes. My goodness how I loved her shoes! High heels, brilliant colors, beautiful patterns... The accessories were just as impressive. I will never forget a very large, gold plated buckle in the shape of a hair bow that my mother attached to a black patent leather belt. It was stunning, and everyone loved it. She was always well dressed, even in jeans and a T-shirt. It wasn't that they were designer jeans, it was that she was elegance personified. She carried herself in such a way that a Hanes T-shirt looked like it had been bought at Neiman Marcus. It wasn't the clothes, it was that she made the clothes what it was.
So on this cold January morning in Miami, I sat in a church in Key Biscayne, and when I looked to my left at a pew full of women, I thought "My God, there sits my childhood, beautifully sculpted and preserved." They still looked as beautiful and put together as they did when they traveled together to Paris in the 1950's, as elegant and regal as they did while I was growing up in the 1980's, and today, in 2013, in their seventies, they are stunning.
It is impossible to explain what makes them so elegant. It is in the way they stand, the way they walk, the way they hold their purses. It is in the perfectly silky, blow-dried hair (most of them are still highlighted blondes, though, the ones who have grayed, have done so flawlessly), the always manicured nails. Their husbands, all in blue sports coats and striped shirts, initials embroidered on their pockets, all with the same hairstyle they had at sixteen, and perfectly polished loafers. These friends of my mothers are a work of art. And they make me feel like I am home every time I am in their company.
It is a shame that this elegance no longer impresses. I am still drawn to the style of dress my mother would have loved to see me in, but it is simply more difficult to find. My daughter will, unfortunately, never see her grandmother steal the spotlight at every party and therefore will never strive to be like her. Instead she emulates the Disney Channel stars who pair patterns with stripes, metallics with neon, and high-tops with dresses. She will never know hear the echo of my mother's laughter in a room full of admirers, or the soft and distinctive chiming of my mother's bracelets as she told stories of her adventures. She will never know the joy of my mother's love, the selflessness with which she gave her life for those she loved. She will never grow up to look into the pew next to her and see her childhood presented in silky hair, chiffon blouses, and soft perfumes. It will be lost, all of it, when my mother's friends join her some day. I only hope they will leave a little of it behind for my daughter to find and make her own.
